


Now Face to Face

by superhoney



Series: Regency Romance [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Minor Sarah Blake/Sam Winchester, Past Balthazar/Castiel, Past Castiel/Other(s), Past Dean/Other(s), Past Prostitution, Referenced Past Dub-Con, Referenced Past Underage Prostitution, Reunions, Romantic Drama, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-03-04 02:37:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 55,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13354719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superhoney/pseuds/superhoney
Summary: With the help of a few unlikely allies, Dean has left his old life in a seedy London brothel behind him and settled into a new routine with his lover, Lord Castiel Milton. He has everything he has ever dreamed of-- and yet, he is not satisfied. There is an empty place inside him that he knows can only be filled by learning what happened to his younger brother, who he has not seen in over six years. And so he and Castiel embark on a journey to discover the truth about Sam, a journey that will test not only their own personal strength but also the strength of their newfound happiness together.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Well, it's finally here!
> 
> If you have not read _Rescue Me Tonight_ , I would strongly advise doing so, as this is a direct continuation of that story and probably won't make a lot of sense without that background. If you have...thank you for your patience.
> 
> I'm about halfway through writing this at the time of posting, so updates should be on a fairly regular, weekly-ish basis. I don't believe there are any additional warnings that apply to this installment, but Dean's past life is occasionally referenced, so please be careful.
> 
> Thank you, as always, to Anna, for support and encouragement and the most enthusiastic beta-reading a writer could ask for. And thank you to Diamond for reassurance and plot help and everything else along the way.

“Are you happy?” Castiel asks him one night, when they’re curled up together under the sheets of his enormous bed, sated and content. He sounds uncharacteristically hesitant, and Dean wonders if somehow he has given Castiel the wrong impression, made him doubt their connection.

He leans up on one elbow and looks down into Castiel’s face, shadowed in the candlelight, so familiar and so dear to him now. “Of course,” Dean assures him. “Why would you think otherwise?”

It has been nearly a month since they outwitted Uriel and Zachariah, nearly a month since they made the decision to stay together. It has been the happiest month of Dean’s life. He’s never felt so adored, so cared for, so respected.

Castiel frowns, searching for the right words. “There are times,” he says softly, “like this, just before you drift away to sleep. Or when I come home to find you sitting at the window, looking down at the street. An expression on your face. Something distant.”

He reaches out and curls one large, warm hand around Dean’s face. Dean leans into the touch, still marvelling at the curious sequence of events that led to them being here together like this. 

“You know I would give you anything you ask of me,” Castiel says, his eyes piercing. “Anything at all. You need only ask, Dean. If you’re not happy here, if there’s something more, if you still wish to leave London and seek a life for yourself elsewhere…”

“No!” Dean exclaims, startling himself with the vehemence in his voice. “No, Castiel, please believe me, that is simply not true.”

“Then what is it?” Castiel asks, voice barely above a whisper. 

It breaks Dean’s heart, seeing him so doubtful. He sighs and closes his eyes.

He knows exactly what it is that Castiel sees in his eyes at his most unguarded moments. The same worry, the same thought that has persisted in his mind for years.

Sam.

Is he even alive? Where is he? Is he safe and happy and healthy? There are so many questions, so many things Dean wishes he knew. 

It has only gotten worse in the month that he’s lived with Castiel. For the first time in his life, Dean is being treated well, is pampered and well-fed and well-loved. He has time to himself, time to do nothing at all, and that’s when thoughts of Sam distract him the most. Guilt rises in his chest like bile and he wonders if Sam knows comfort, if he found a way off the cold streets of London like Dean did, or if he perished there, alone, on some dark night while Dean smiled and offered himself to whichever man was paying him for the night.

Castiel sighs, turning his head away from Dean. “Goodnight, Dean.” His voice is slightly muffled by the pillows, but Dean hears the defeat in it regardless.

It’s difficult for Dean, adjusting to having someone who cares about his feelings, his thoughts, his worries. He doesn’t know how to share anything other than his body with someone. But Castiel makes him want to try.

“I want to find my brother,” he says, the words ringing in the silence of their bedroom.

He has never before given voice to this wish, the deepest wish of his heart. Speaking it out loud changes it, makes it real in a way it has never been before. 

Castiel rolls back over to face him, his eyes wide. “Your brother?” he repeats, incredulous. All his earlier disappointment in Dean’s reluctance to open up has vanished, replaced by curiosity. “Dean, you’ve never spoken of a brother before.”

Dean winces. “It is...difficult, to speak of him,” he admits. 

A small smile appears on Castiel’s face. “I am somewhat acquainted with that feeling.” He reaches over and slowly wraps an arm around Dean, drawing his head down to rest on his shoulder.

Dean breathes a sigh of relief and curls in closer, reassured that he has not pushed Castiel away too far. “He went missing one day when I was just sixteen,” he says quietly. Castiel’s hand rests lightly on his hair, stroking it back from his forehead in a soothing motion. “I don’t know what happened. He was simply gone. That’s when....” he pauses, swallowing roughly at the memory. “That’s when Crowley found me. I had nothing, no family, no hope. I thought surely my brother was dead, and I resigned myself to a life at the brothel, no longer caring what happened to me.”

“And all this time, you’ve never discovered the truth?”

Dean shrugs. “How could I? I had no money, no resources. The first few months, I thought perhaps I might stumble across him one day. Or hear word of a young boy who looked like him. But London is large, and she has many places for children to slip between the cracks.”

Castiel nods. “Then we’ll find him,” he declares. “Or, failing that, we’ll find out what happened to him.”

“It’s not that simple,” Dean protests, raising himself up so he can look down into his lover’s face. “I haven’t seen him in years, Castiel, where would we even begin?”

Castiel looks supremely unconcerned with such trivial matters. “We’ll find a way,” he states with the particular confidence of a man who has grown up in luxury, always accustomed to the world bending to his will. 

“But we don’t even know--” Dean says, but Castiel cuts him off with a firm kiss to his lips.

“Hush,” he says. “We can talk about it in the morning. For now, we ought to focus on our sleep.”

It’s the logical thing to do. But how can Dean sleep now, with plans and schemes running through his mind, all the possible outcomes of their quest flashing before him.

He tosses around a few times, trying to make himself comfortable, until finally Castiel wraps him firmly in his arms and Dean relaxes into his hold. Just before he drifts off to sleep, he hears Castiel speak once more.

“What is his name? Your brother.”

“Sam,” Dean replies, voice barely above a whisper. “His name is Sam.”

Mere minutes later, Castiel’s breathing evens out, indicating that he is no longer awake. Dean lies there in the dark a few moments longer, staring out towards the streets of London visible through the windows.

_We’re going to find you, Sam. No matter how long it takes, no matter how difficult the search becomes. I promise you._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to Dean's past and the briefest of mentions of past Dean/Victor.

They sleep late the next day, exhausted by the honesty of their conversation the night before. Dean stirs once as the morning light begins to peek through the curtains, but Castiel grumbles and rolls them over away from it, his arms still firmly wrapped around Dean’s chest. Dean relaxes into his hold and drifts back to sleep.

It must be mid-morning, judging by the position of the sun, when a gentle knock on their chamber door rouses Dean once more. He attempts to slip out of Castiel’s hold without waking him, pulling a robe over his body and pulling the door open a crack.

“My apologies for disturbing you, sir,” Alfie says. “But you and Lord Castiel have a visitor I believe you will wish to receive immediately.”

Dean smiles at him, making sure Alfie knows he doesn’t mind the intrusion. “We’ll be down shortly,” he promises.

“Very good, sir.” With a half-bow, Alfie trots back off down the corridor, presumably to ensure their guest is comfortable. Dean watches him go with a faint smile. If he has done one good thing, he thinks, it was bringing Alfie to work in Castiel’s household after Lord Zachariah’s arrest. He’s been a good friend to Dean, and has become fiercely devoted to Castiel in the month since his arrival. 

Dean crawls back into bed, lightly running his fingers through Castiel’s hair. “Wake up, my lord,” he says gently. “We have a visitor.”

“I told you not to call me that anymore,” Castiel mumbles without opening his eyes. 

He’s always terribly cantankerous in the mornings. It only makes Dean’s fondness for him grow. “Yes, and I never listen to you,” he replies. “We’ll have stern words about it later, I’m sure. Now, up.”

After a few more incoherent grumbles, Castiel pushes away the heavy bedding and stretches, drawing Dean’s gaze to the way his body seems to glow in the morning light. Castiel catches his eye and smiles at him, amused.

“No time for that,” he chides. “You were the one who insisted we have a guest to greet.”

Dean sighs, but he knows Castiel is right. They dress slowly, hands lingering on each other’s bodies in light caresses as they help each other with buttons and fastenings until they’re presentable. Dean’s stomach rumbles once as he’s adjusting Castiel’s cravat and they both laugh, stopping for a brief kiss before they leave their chamber.

Alfie meets them at the bottom of the stairs to escort them to the parlour. At Castiel’s questioning look, he simply smiles and shakes his head. 

“Ah, it is to be a surprise, then,” Castiel replies. “Very well.”

As Alfie pushes the parlour doors open, Castiel slips his hand into Dean’s. Dean looks up at him and winks, wondering who their visitor is, but put at ease by Castiel’s unruffled demeanour. Surely it cannot be anyone who wishes them harm.

Someday, perhaps, Dean will stop being suspicious of the world and the people in it, but it is not yet this day.

Castiel sees their visitor first, and his grip on Dean’s hand turns painfully tight. As the door opens fully and Dean is able to see inside the room, he understands why.

Lady Celeste stands there, hands clasped at her sides and mouth set in a tight line. Dean swallows nervously and seriously considers fleeing back up the stairs, but Castiel gently pulls him forward as Alfie quietly shuts the door behind them.

“Celeste,” Castiel says carefully. “I admit, this is a surprise.”

After all the confusion the previous month, Dean had been unable to find the time to speak to Celeste, to explain the truth to her. And then her wife’s sister was taken ill, and they left London in haste to be by her side during her recovery. He knows that Castiel and Celeste have corresponded briefly during that time, that Castiel has assured her all is well and that it will be explained in time, but this is the first time they have been in one another’s company since…

Since Dean admitted that he was a pawn in Zachariah and Uriel’s ridiculous scheme. Since she called him a greedy, grasping, heartless piece of scum.

“I believe you owe me an explanation,” she says tightly, not looking at Dean at all. As though he isn’t there, or worse, he’s simply not worth her attention. “Castiel, as a friend, I must speak to you alone. There are things you don’t know, things you don’t understand.”

“I could say the same to you.” Castiel’s voice is mild, but there’s a hint of rebuke in his words. 

“He’s lying to you, Castiel!” Celeste snaps. “He lied to us all.” She finally glances at Dean, and the disgust in her gaze nearly knocks Dean back a step.

“No,” Castiel says. “You’ve missed quite a lot while you were away, my dear friend. Please. Take a seat, and let us discuss this reasonably.”

Celeste huffs, but settles into a chair by the fireplace, crossing her arms over her chest. Castiel seats himself across from her and indicates that Dean should take the seat beside him.

“Now,” Castiel says, “what exactly is it that you think Dean is lying about?”

“Everything,” Celeste says flatly. “Who he is, where he’s from, how he knows Lord Zachariah, to begin with. They’re not related at all, Castiel.”

“I know,” Castiel says calmly.

Celeste frowns. “You know?” she repeats.

“Yes.” Castiel turns and gives Dean a brief smile. “Dean told me everything.”

“But--”

“But why is he still here, then?” Castiel finishes. 

“Precisely!” Celeste throws her hands in the air. “He lied to you, made you think he cared for you, and it was all in the pursuit of mere money! How can you smile at him like that, Castiel, knowing what he’s done?”

“Because I also know why he did it,” Castiel says softly. “I believe that’s the piece of the puzzle you’re missing, Celeste. You were away from London for some time. Did you not hear any news from the city while you were away?”

“I wasn’t paying much attention to city gossip,” Celeste answers, eyes darting back and forth between Dean and Castiel. “I was rather occupied nursing Gilda’s sister back to health.”

“Then you might have missed the news of Lord Zachariah and his friend Uriel’s arrest.”

Celeste’s mouth drops open in surprise. “Arrest?”

“For the attempted murder of a member of London society. Myself.”

“But if they’ve been arrested--”

“How will they pay Dean? Precisely. They won’t, because Dean was the one to bring their scheme to light, at great risk to himself.” Castiel reaches across and takes hold of Dean’s hand once more.

“I admit, I am terribly confused,” Celeste says slowly. She finally looks at Dean for more than a brief second, her gaze assessing. “If you knew that their arrest would foil the plot, why would you bring about such a sequence of events?”

“They threatened you,” Dean says quietly. “They threatened Castiel, they threatened you, then they spoke of blackmailing you into silence by promising your wife would come to harm if you told anyone what you knew. I couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear to see any of you hurt.”

Inhaling sharply, Celeste asks, “You did this to protect us?”

“Yes.” 

“I don’t understand,” she says slowly. “There’s still something missing. Even knowing that there was some decency beneath his greed, how can you allow him to stay here, Castiel? He tricked you, deceived you. He made the right choice in the end, but before that, he chose to enter into this plot with Zachariah and Uriel. How can you simply accept that?”

Castiel turns to look at Dean once more, his gaze questioning. Dean sighs, rubbing a hand wearily over his face. He should have known Celeste would never be satisfied with the partial truth. If they are ever to win her approval, to win back her affection, they must be entirely honest with her.

He nods at Castiel. “Do you wish me to leave the two of you alone?” Castiel murmurs.

“No,” Dean replies. “Please, stay with me.”

“Of course.”

Celeste is watching them, confusion and suspicion still etched across her features. Dean takes a deep breath. “You are correct that I made many ill-advised choices,” he begins. “But I believe, in my defense, that I made those choices from a place of desperation which, while not excusing them entirely, perhaps helps to explain them.”

“What do you mean?” Celeste is clearly growing frustrated, and Dean knows he must be blunt before he pushes her patience too far.

“I told you that Lord Zachariah hired me to impersonate a cousin of his,” he says quietly. “But I never told you where he found me and offered me the role.”

Even now, it is difficult to speak of it. But the reassuring press of Castiel’s hand in his own keeps Dean grounded, gives him the strength he needs to continue.

“He found me at the brothel I worked at. The one I had lived in since I was sixteen.” Dean looks up to meet Celeste’s eyes, watching as her face grows pale and her eyes widen. “I agreed to his proposal because the amount offered would be enough to set me free from a life I hated, a life I longed to escape above all else. I knew it was wrong, it was cruel, but I was desperate and frightened and it felt like my only hope.”

“Dean,” she breathes, her voice thick with emotion. But Dean isn’t quite finished yet.

“So, yes, it was money that motivated me,” he says. “And there is no excuse for that. I confessed everything to Castiel, and I expected him to kick me back out onto the street. I expected to have to crawl back to the brothel and beg to be taken back. But Castiel surprised me. He has been surprising me every day since. I cannot say whether I deserve it, his forgiveness, his understanding, but it’s there.”

“I know that I care for Dean deeply, just as he cares for me,” Castiel says, picking up where Dean left off. “What he did no longer matters. I’m not angry with him, Celeste, and I hope that this helps you to understand why. And that perhaps, it will help lessen your anger as well.”

“I am sorry for the betrayal,” Dean tells her. “For the lies, for the deception. But I cannot find it in myself to be entirely sorry for what I have done, because my life has been utterly changed since the day I accepted Zachariah’s offer. Changed for the better in a way I never dreamed possible.”

A single tear makes a slow journey down Celeste’s cheek, soon followed by another. “I’m sorry,” she says, barely audible. She draws in a shuddering breath. “I’m so, so sorry for what I said to you, Dean. If I had known--” She shakes her head. “No. My lack of information does not excuse my behavior. I should have asked more questions, given you the benefit of the doubt. Tried to understand what would motivate you, rather than dismissing you out of hand. I will never forgive myself for that.”

“It’s alright,” Dean tells her. “Truly. I would likely have done the same, in your position. You thought you were protecting your friend, and I admire that.”

“But you are my friend also,” Celeste protests, “and I have been absolutely horrid to you.” She looks over at Castiel. “And to you, to a lesser extent. I should have trusted that you would have good reasons to continue your association with Dean.”

“I understand.” Castiel slowly lets Dean’s hand fall and crosses the room to kneel in front of Celeste’s chair. He produces a handkerchief from the folds of his coat and delicately wipes away her tears, making her laugh. Then he places a gentle kiss on her forehead and enfolds her in his arms, murmuring something Dean is unable to hear.

He doesn’t mind this small moment between them. They have been friends for far longer than Dean has been part of their lives, and it goes a long way towards lifting his own spirits to see them reunited like this. 

When Castiel stands, he draws Celeste up with him, and she crosses the room, biting her lip as she approaches Dean. He rises to his feet, and before she can say anything else, he wraps his arms around her waist and hides his head in her narrow shoulder. 

“Forgive me,” she whispers, “I did not understand.”

“It’s already forgiven,” he tells her, and it’s the truth. He bears her no resentment. He only wishes to move forward in honesty and in friendship from this day forward.

“Well,” Castiel says, watching them with a fond smile on his face, “now that the matter has been resolved, what do you say we ask Alfie to bring us some breakfast?”

Dean laughs and steps back, tugging playfully at Celeste’s hair. “Indeed,” he says, “I believe we could all use it.”

“Yes,” Celeste says, wiping away the last of her tears, “I’m quite hungry, now that my unnecessary outrage has been purged from my body.”

“Then let us fill it with better things.” After a quick conference with Alfie, Castiel directs them to the small table at the other side of the room. He nudges Dean’s foot gently as they take their seats, and Dean gives him a smile to show that he’s alright.   
Satisfied, Castiel nods and turns back to Celeste.

“How is your wife’s sister?” he asks.

“Much recovered,” Celeste answers cheerfully. “We were concerned, but the doctors assure us she will be fine. She is young and strong. We hope to visit again soon.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Dean says. He was distracted by Celeste’s arrival, and then by their dramatic conversation, but this talk of siblings has him thinking about Sam again, about the conversation he and Castiel had the night before. 

With the unerring sense he has of Dean’s mood, Castiel slides a hand onto Dean’s knee and squeezes it lightly. Celeste observes them for a moment, a slight frown marring her face.

“Did I say something wrong?” she asks, reading Dean just as easily as Castiel does.

“No,” Dean assures her. “No, not at all. It’s nothing.” He attempts to force a smile back onto his face, but Celeste narrows her eyes at him, clearly unconvinced.

“If I’ve misstepped somehow, please do me the courtesy of informing me how,” she says.

Dean takes a deep breath. He did promise himself to move forward in honesty and friendship. So, in that spirit, he says, “I was merely thinking of my own brother.”

Castiel’s hand tightens on his knee, but Dean continues. “I haven’t seen him in many years, and Castiel and I were just recently discussing attempting to locate him.”

“How intriguing.” Celeste leans forward, her breakfast forgotten. “How old is he? When was the last time you saw him? What is his name?”

“His name is Sam. He would be about nineteen years of age now, and I haven’t seen him in over six years. It was his disappearance that led me to,” he pauses, “to my former source of income.”

“Oh,” Celeste says, eyes going wide once more. “Forgive me, but how do you even know he’s still alive? Six years is a long time.”

“I don’t know it,” Dean admits. He has been afraid to give voice to the possibility, afraid that it will make it more real. “But in my heart, I believe my brother is still alive. And I must find him.”

Celeste nods decisively. “Then I will assist you, in whatever way I can.”

“Truly?” Dean is surprised by this declaration. He knows it’s a foolish, sentimental quest, but to have both Castiel and Celeste’s support means the world to him. 

“Of course,” she says with a bright grin. “What are friends for?”

Castiel laughs. “And with the formidable intellectual power and sharp investigative talent of Lady Celeste on our side, how could we possibly fail?”

Dean looks at the two of them, marvelling that he has somehow found a place in their world. Their warmth and affection surrounds him, makes him feel that the impossible can be achieved. Together, he thinks, they have a chance of finding his brother.

***

Of course, finding Sam is far easier said than done.

Celeste and Castiel ask Dean a number of questions about his brother, and he answers as best as he can, but there are so many things he doesn’t remember, and so many things he simply doesn’t know. After failing to answer what ought to be a simple question for the third time in a row, Dean angrily rises from his chair, pacing around the room, his former optimism rapidly fading.

“This is useless,” he gripes. “I’m useless. I have nothing to start us on, nothing helpful.”

“Don’t say that,” Castiel says sharply. “You are not useless, Dean. It’s a lot to ask of you, remembering small details after six years. This isn’t going to be solved in a day.”

“I know,” Dean replies wearily. “I know. I just…”

“Just want to find your brother,” Celeste finishes, her voice sympathetic. “We understand, Dean. We want to find Sam as well. Perhaps, though, it’s best if we leave it for the day. I have duties I need attend to, and you ought to get some rest. It’s been a stressful day for you already.”

It’s a mildly condescending statement, and Dean’s pride is lightly stung by it, but he knows Celeste is correct. With a nod, he helps her to her feet and embraces her once again.

“Have faith,” she whispers. “We will see this done.”

Castiel rises as well and escorts Celeste to the door, then joins Dean once more. Ignoring the chair beside him, he sinks to the ground and rests his head against Dean’s knee. Dean immediately drops a hand into his thick, dark hair, and Castiel practically purrs at his touch. It brings a smile to Dean’s face despite his frustration. 

They sit in silence for a few moments before Castiel says, “This won’t be easy, Dean.”

“I know,” Dean replies. “Nothing that matters ever is. I apologize for my impatience. I simply--”

How to explain the feeling of helplessness that overcame him when he first lost Sam? The scorn he heaped on himself, the anger he turned inward until it became bitterness and self-loathing? And now, unable to provide any clear answers, how those old feelings have risen to the surface once more?

“You’re blaming yourself,” Castiel finishes, tilting his head back to look at Dean. “Don’t.”

“How can I not? It’s all my fault.”

“Stubborn man,” Castiel mumbles, but there’s more fondness than irritation in his tone. “Perhaps we need to change tactics. If you cannot remember enough to start our search off, is there anyone else who can?”

Dean frowns. “Our parents are long dead,” he says bleakly. “And the streets of London are not the most warm to orphaned boys. We had no protectors, no friends.”

“Perhaps not,” Castiel says thoughtfully, “but you have friends now, yes?”

“You and Celeste. Hardly an armada.”

Castiel pinches his ankle and Dean swats at him in response. “Think harder,” Castiel urges him. 

Who else could he possibly mean? Not only someone Dean knows and considers a friend, but someone who could help them? There’s Alfie, he supposes, but Alfie grew up the child of servants in the houses of the rich. What would he know of life in the streets and alleys of London?

And then the answer dawns on him, so clearly he wonders why he didn’t think of it before.

“Victor!” he exclaims.

Castiel smiles up at him. “You said he’s been with Bow Street for some time. Perhaps he knows something, or knows someone who does.”

It’s a brilliant idea. Nobody knows the streets of London better than the Runners, other than those who live on them, of course. There’s no guarantee that Victor will know anything, of course, and Dean is not so optimistic that he thinks the search for his brother can possibly be so easy.

But it’s a fine place to start, and a start is all they need.

“Can we call on him today?” Dean asks.

“Of course,” Castiel replies indulgently. “Would you like to go now?”

Dean pretends to think on the question for a moment, then slides to the ground beside Castiel, who looks startled but quickly wraps an arm around Dean’s shoulder. “Soon,” Dean tells him. “But first--”

He leans forward and presses a soft kiss to Castiel’s lips, feeling them turn up in a smile as he does. It overwhelms him, sometimes, how good Castiel is to him. How good his life has become. 

Sometimes, it frightens him too, wondering how long it can possibly last. But he pushes those thoughts away and loses himself in Castiel’s embrace, praying that the universe will continue to show him some kindness after so many years of hardship.

***

It’s mid-afternoon by the time they arrive at Bow Street. Castiel instructs the driver to wait for them, then glances at Dean as they descend from the carriage. “Ready?” he asks.

It’s strange, being back here. The last time Dean was here, it was to give his statement about the whole sordid mess with Zachariah and Uriel. Those memories are neither entirely happy nor entirely unhappy. It was not a pleasant experience, but it was also what set him free to be with Castiel. 

Taking a deep breath, Dean nods. “Ready.”

The man behind the desk immediately straightens up as they enter, eyes going wide at the sight of Castiel. It isn’t exactly a common occurrence, a member of the peerage strolling into the offices of the Bow Street Runners. 

“Good afternoon,” Castiel says, polite as ever. “Is Constable Henriksen available, by any chance?”

“Certainly, my lord.” The other constable nearly trips as he hastens to stand from behind his desk. “I’ll fetch him at once.”

Dean exchanges an amused glance with Castiel, and it isn’t long before they see Victor round the corner, one eyebrow raising as he recognizes them. He murmurs his thanks to his fellow constable and waves Dean and Castiel forward.

Once they’re seated in his office, he raises an eyebrow at Dean. “Back so soon? What kind of trouble are you in now?”

“It’s not about me, exactly,” Dean replies.

Victor turns his gaze to Castiel. “You, my lord?” He sounds rather surprised at the idea. 

“Not quite,” Castiel says. “I think, perhaps, you should start at the beginning, Dean.”

Dean sighs and launches into his tale. In some ways, it’s easier to explain to him than it had been to either Castiel or Celeste. Victor has a better understanding of life in the less than savoury neighbourhoods of London, and he also knows exactly how Dean lived for the past six years. It’s really only Sam that doesn’t know about.

“I need to find him,” Dean concludes. “Or at least find out what happened to him.”

“It won’t be easy,” Victor says slowly. “Dean, do you know how many children there are living on our city’s streets? I don’t, but I know it’s too many. And after six years…”

“We’re not expecting a miracle,” Castiel says calmly, laying a hand on Dean’s knee. “But we have to pursue every avenue we have. We hoped, with your connections, you might be able to at least start us on the correct path.”

Victor purses his lips, looking out the window that opens onto the street. Dean can’t read the expression on his face, and as the silence stretches on, he wonders if this was a mistake. If he’s presuming too much, counting on Victor’s goodwill towards him.   
Maybe Victor no longer cares to help Dean now that it’s clear his body won’t be offered as a reward. 

But just as Dean is preparing to rise, to apologize for wasting Victor’s time, he shakes his head slowly and turns to face them once more. “I’ll make inquiries,” he says.

Castiel smiles at him, clearly pleased. “That’s all we ask.”

“I’m not promising anything,” Victor warns them. 

“We know.” Dean looks at him, hoping his gratitude is clear in his face and in his voice. “Thank you, Victor.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Victor mutters. “You may not like the answers to the questions you’re asking, Dean.”

He knows. He’s always known this. It’s partially the reason he was so afraid to begin this process. If something horrible happened to Sam…

But at least he’ll know. Surely, knowing will be better than this not-knowing he’s lived with for the past six years. 

“I want those answers just the same,” he says firmly.

There’s something like pride, or perhaps admiration, in Victor’s slight smile. Then he turns to look at Castiel, his expression turning more formal. “May I speak with you alone for a moment, my lord?”

Castiel looks at Dean, who shrugs and gives Victor a small wave, then leaves the office and returns to the front room to wait. It isn’t long before Castiel emerges, and they leave Bow Street in contemplative silence.

They’re halfway back to Castiel’s house before Dean’s curiosity gets the better of him. “What did Victor want to talk to you about?”

A small smile hovers on Castiel’s face. “He was asking me my intentions towards you.”

Surely, he’s joking. “You can’t be serious.”

“He’s quite protective of you, you know,” Castiel continues, his smile growing. “Told me that if I ever hurt you, I’ll be joining Zachariah and Uriel in their unpleasant fate. Or worse.”

“And what did you tell him?”

Castiel reaches out and takes hold of Dean’s hand, raising it to his lips and pressing a gentle kiss to his knuckles. “I told him that if I ever hurt you, you’d likely be the one dispensing justice, but perhaps once you were finished, he might have a turn.”

Dean is startled into laughter, and he slides over on the carriage seat so he’s pressed all along Castiel’s side. “You give me too much credit,” he mumbles, burying his face in Castiel’s shoulder.

“You do not give yourself nearly enough,” Castiel counters. 

“I cannot believe Victor said that to you. To a lord! And over someone as inconsequential as me.”

“You are not inconsequential,” Castiel tells him sternly. “And you never have been.”

It’s a difficult thing for Dean to accept, no matter how many times he hears it. But there’s a pleasantly warm feeling in his chest, knowing that Victor cares enough about his well-being to discuss it with Castiel. Knowing that in spite of the strange circumstances of their relationship, such as it is, they have become friends. 

And though Dean hasn’t had many friends in his life, he’s beginning to understand how truly precious they are. If he can count Victor among them, then he is truly fortunate. And if in the name of that friendship, he is able to discover something about Sam’s fate, then he will be even more grateful to have him in his life.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean would not consider himself a particularly virtuous person under any circumstances, but he’s well-aware he’s especially lacking in the virtue of patience. He does not handle periods of inaction with anything remotely resembling serenity. Castiel teases him about wearing down the soles of his slippers with all the pacing he does in the two weeks after their visit to Bow Street, and with good reason. Dean wishes he could do anything to help speed along the search, but he knows the best thing to do is leave the investigation in Victor’s capable hands. 

He has never been very good at doing what’s best.

“Can we go to Bow Street again today?” he asks one morning, seated across from Castiel in the parlour, their feet tangled together beneath the table. Castiel glances up at him from over the top of his newspaper, his brows raised, and Dean feels himself flush.

“To see if Victor has made any progress,” he clarifies, knowing it’s unnecessary.

Castiel puts down his newspaper and gives Dean his full attention. “He told us he would contact us if he had any information,” he says gently.

“I know.” But Dean can’t help the itching beneath his skin, the constant circling of his thoughts back to the question that constantly haunts him: _where is Sam?_

“Dean--”

He hates it, that careful note in Castiel’s voice. The way he treats him like he’s so fragile these days, the way he holds him just a little tighter each night. Or so he tells himself. In truth, it frightens him, to be so cared for. To be so-- no, he cannot even acknowledge it. 

“Of course, surely you’re busy,” Dean mutters, serving himself another slice of toast. “Another day, perhaps.”

Castiel’s hand closes over his wrist, thumb stroking lightly over the thin skin there. “I only have a few appointments this morning,” he says. “We could go this afternoon.”

Dean looks up, then looks away immediately. How could he be so ungrateful, so short with Castiel, who has been nothing but unfailingly steady in his support. “Thank you,” he murmurs eventually. “I--”

“It’s alright,” Castiel tells him, blue eyes solemn. “I know.”

Overwhelmed, Dean leans across the table and presses a kiss to his cheek. Castiel smiles back at him, then picks his newspaper back up, a sense of peace falling over them once more.

Dean kisses him goodbye again when he leaves, admiring the way the cut of his new grey jacket emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders. Castiel murmurs a fond farewell in his ear, wrapping Dean in a warm embrace, and then he’s gone, and the house seems larger and emptier without his presence.

As much as Castiel encourages Dean to treat the house as his own, Dean is still somewhat uncomfortable being here without him. It makes him feel like an impostor all over again, like someone playing a part, no matter how well he knows that what he and Castiel have is real and honest and true. Castiel tells him that this is his home now, but it has been so many years since Dean had a home, he’s not sure what that truly means.

He wanders the halls, considering going down to the kitchen though he’s not particularly hungry, but instead makes his way to the library. When Castiel first gave him a tour of his residence, he was nearly vibrating with excitement as he threw open the doors, glancing back over his shoulder at Dean with an expectant look on his face. “This is my favourite room in the entire house,” he said, and since then, it has become of Dean’s favourites as well.

The large windows let in the soft morning sunlight, and the shelves that line every wall of the room seem to glow as it reflects off the gilt lettering on the spines of the books. Dean traces lightly over the row nearest the door, a faint smile hovering on his lips as he recalls the way Castiel spoke of them as though they were old friends of his. Dean hadn’t thought it possible, to be more enamoured of him than he already was, but that day proved him wrong, just as every day since then has done as well.

He moves farther into the room, still trailing his hand along the shelves. He stops suddenly and plucks a volume at random, carrying it with him to the comfortable blue armchair in the opposite corner, settling into it with a sigh. He opens the book and focuses on the task at hand.

Dean only has the faintest memory of his mother reading to him before bed, stories from a collection of fantastical tales. After her death, his father taught him to read, slowly and painstakingly, but the lessons became less and less frequent as his father’s absences grew longer and longer. And of course, there was never much time for reading at Crowley’s, nor anything to read. So it’s a struggle for Dean now, almost like re-learning the skill all over again, but he’s persistent in his efforts. This is something he has the time for, now. Something for him and him alone. 

He hasn’t told Castiel about his practice. He usually only spends time in the library when Castiel is away, because they’ve somehow managed to avoid a conversation about Dean’s difficulties with reading and Dean has no wish to bring up the subject. It only reminds him of the endless chasm between their social standing, the differences no amount of time and grooming can ever erase. But one day, perhaps, they can sit here together, in matching chairs, reading in companionable silence. It’s a scene Dean replays over and over again in his mind, and it’s a tangible goal he can work towards. Something to give him purpose, to lend structure to his days.

And if it happens to be something that also brings him pleasure, well, it’s about time Dean had that in his life. 

He passes a few pleasant hours in the library until a soft knock on the door pulls his attention away from his book. He looks up to see Alfie hovering in the doorway, trying and failing to hide a smile. “I thought you might wish to take a break for lunch,” Alfie says.

Dean closes the book and gently replaces it on the shelf. “That sounds like a fine idea,” he says. 

“How goes the practice, my lord?” Alfie asks curiously. It’s hard to hide anything from the servants, but Dean doesn’t mind Alfie knowing how he spends his time in the library. They have few secrets from one another, and Dean has come to depend on Alfie a great deal ever since their escape from Zachariah. 

“Slowly, but steadily,” Dean laughs. “It also has quite the effect on my appetite.”

“Come along, then,” Alfie says, shutting the library door behind them. “Lord Castiel will be home shortly, perhaps in time to join you.”

“I should plan to eat all his favourites before his arrival, then,” Dean jokes. Alfie laughs at the thought, his shoulders shaking in merriment. He’s so much more comfortable here than he ever was in Lord Zachariah’s employ, and it brings joy to Dean’s heart to see the changes in him.

He’s only been seated at the table for about five minutes when he hears the familiar sound of Castiel’s boots clicking on the floor of the entranceway. “Perfect timing,” he murmurs to himself. Castiel sweeps in a few moments later, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the food, or perhaps at the sight of Dean waiting for him. Or perhaps even both. Dean feels his heart turn over his chest as Castiel smiles at him, that expression of pure happiness that never fails to fill him with awe.

This is his life now. And it will never cease to amaze him.

“How was your morning?” he asks as Castiel takes the seat across from him. He understands little of how Castiel passes his time outside the house, his brief time posing as a member of the nobility already fading from memory, but he likes to hear Castiel speak of it.

Castiel takes a few bites of his meal before replying. “Tiresome,” he says eventually. “There is work to be done concerning the charity ball Celeste is hosting next month, and yet all everyone wishes to discuss is what they plan on wearing.”

“Perhaps you ought to suggest they wear nothing at all,” Dean says, and is rewarded with Castiel’s laughter.

“Oh, I think that would be met with outright rage,” he says, “not because of any moral standard, but simply because it would deprive them all of the chance to have new garments made.”

“And how is Celeste managing her preparations?” Dean asks, his interest in this answer far more genuine. They haven’t seen much of her recently due to the upcoming ball. “Is there anything I might assist her with?”

“That’s a generous thought,” Castiel says with an approving smile. “I admit I know little about the planning of a ball, but I imagine Celeste would be glad of any help at this point, or even of some company. Shall we send her a note?”

“Please,” Dean says. It will be good to see Celeste, to continue to rebuild and repair their friendship. He knows even less than Castiel about planning a ball, but he is determined to be helpful regardless.

“And how did you spend the morning?” Castiel asks. “Apart from missing me, of course.”

Dean playfully kicks at him under the table, and Castiel grins at him, unrepentant. He looks younger in these private moments between them, and Dean dares to think it’s because he is able to drop all the pretensions, all the stresses of his position, and simply be himself. 

“I did miss you,” he admits, and Castiel’s smile changes, becomes something softer, more tender. 

“I’m afraid I may be away from home a good deal more than usual in the upcoming days,” he says. “It will be good for you, if Celeste does require your aid. I don’t like to think of you being lonely here.”

“I’m not lonely,” Dean replies quickly. He doesn’t want to cause Castiel any worry, to think him so weak as to need constant supervision. “Please don’t feel you must change your schedule to accommodate me.”

Castiel gives him an appraising look, then nods. “You’ll tell me, though, if it becomes a problem for you? For us?”

“Yes,” Dean vows. “I will.”

He knows Castiel has a life that must always remain separate from him, and that has never worried Dean. He thinks it’s probably a good thing. What does worry him slightly, however, is that it will interfere with their search to find Sam. Dean can continue on his own, of course, but Castiel has resources that will surely quicken the process. They were supposed to return to Bow Street this afternoon, but now Dean wonders if perhaps Castiel will be too busy to accompany him.

“Are you needed for more committee meetings this afternoon?” he asks tentatively.

Frowning, Castiel says, “No. I was under the impression we would be paying a call on Constable Henriksen.”

Dean lets out a sigh of relief. “I worried you might no longer have the time,” he confesses.

“Of course I do,” Castiel tells him. “This is important to you, Dean, so it is important to me as well. If you’ve finished your meal, we can go this minute.”

“Can we?” He hates the way his voice sounds, so desperate and pleading, but he does want to go, has spent the entire morning trying not to think about what Victor might have to tell them. Or might not have.

“I’ll have the carriage made ready.” Castiel pushes back his chair and leaves the room, one hand brushing lightly across Dean’s shoulder as he passes him. Dean takes a moment to collect himself, then follows. 

They’re quiet on the ride through the streets of London, Dean doing his best not to allow his imagination to run away from him. He must keep his expectations low. To hope for too much at this early stage will only lead to disappointment. 

The same constable they saw on their previous visit is behind the front desk. His eyes widen as he sees Dean and Castiel enter, and he murmurs something indecipherable under his breath before fleeing down the hall, presumably to fetch Victor.

“I think he’s frightened of you,” Dean says to Castiel, laughing at the thought.

“Am I so intimidating?” Castiel frowns.

“Maybe to some,” Dean says. “But not to me.”

Victor’s low cough interrupts them. “Good afternoon, my lord,” he says politely. “Dean. If you’d like to step into my office…”

They follow him down the hall and into his office. Victor’s face is neutral, and Dean taps his fingers nervously against his leg, wondering if this was a good idea after all. If he has nothing to report, the disappointment will be crushing. And if he has made some progress, and discovered that Sam was the victim of tragic circumstances…

“I suppose you know why we’re here,” Castiel says.

Victor lets out a long breath, and his gaze turns to Dean as his face takes on an expression of something like pity. Dean feels the air leave his lungs in a rush and he grips the arms of his chair so tightly his knuckles turn white.

“What is it?” he asks, dreading the answer and craving it at the same time. “Is he--”

“I don’t know,” Victor admits. “I’m sorry, Dean. But there has been no progress whatsoever. No leads, no whispers, no rumours. We have nothing to go on.”

Dean can do nothing but nod. Of course they have nothing to go on. He should have tried harder to find Sam all those years ago, shouldn’t have given up so easily. He wasted so many years and now it’s too late. 

Distantly, he hears Victor and Castiel conversing, something about Castiel offering further payment to continue the search, and it focuses Dean’s attention on their conversation once more.

“No,” he says softly.

They both turn to look at him, Victor coolly assessing, Castiel with his usual compassion. “No,” Dean repeats. “There is nothing more to be done.”

“Dean--” Castiel begins, but Dean cuts him off. 

“Thank you, Victor,” he says. “For your efforts. I know you are not at fault for the lack of success.”

“Neither are you,” Castiel says immediately. There’s an edge of frustration in his voice, and Dean flinches from it. Softening slightly, Castiel continues. “Dean, we knew this would be a difficult venture. We knew we might not accomplish anything.”

“And yet I was foolish enough to hope!” Dean bursts out. “I thought my life had taken a turn for the better. I thought this might be the time to finally dare pursue things I always imagined were out of my reach. But I was wrong.”

Castiel starts to say something, then stops, casting a look in Victor’s direction. Dean flushes upon realizing how uncomfortable this scene must be for him.

“Dean,” Victor says slowly, “I have an idea.”

“No,” Dean says again, but Castiel turns to him, eyes pleading.

“Please, just hear him out,” he asks, and Dean cannot find it in himself to deny him.

So he swallows tightly and nods.

“I believe many of our frustrations stem from the fact that not everyone trusts us the way you do,” Victor says, a hint of wryness in his tone. “The people who might know something, those who might have been in situations similar to yours...even with offers of rewards, they have been reluctant to divulge any information. It’s possible they simply know nothing, but it’s also possible some of them do and aren’t willing to share it. At least not with me or the other constables.”

“Are you suggesting we conduct our own investigation?” Castiel asks, arching one eyebrow. He doesn’t look offended at the thought, merely intrigued. 

“Somewhat,” Victor says with a nod. “I’m suggesting that there might be someone else who encounters a variety of London’s less-than-savoury types. Someone who would almost certainly be willing to help, in exchange for fair compensation. Someone you know.” He directs this last part at Dean with a meaningful look, and Dean feels a chill run through him as realization takes hold.

“Crowley,” he murmurs. 

Castiel’s reaction is instantaneous. “Absolutely not.”

As much as Dean would like to be so firm in his convictions, he must admit, the idea has merit. Crowley was the one who found Dean on the streets, desperate and alone. He might have seen Sam. He might know someone who did. And Victor is correct: for the right price, Crowley can certainly be persuaded to give them aid.

“Thank you, Victor,” he says.

“Dean, you can’t be serious.” Castiel turns to him once more, face anguished. “Surely you don’t wish to go back there.”

“I don’t,” Dean admits, “but what I do wish is to find my brother. By any means necessary.”

Castiel stares at him for a long moment, and then finally, he nods. Dean relaxes, much more confident in this plan now that he’s assured of Castiel’s support.

“I can accompany you, if it would make you feel more comfortable,” Victor suggests.

“That’s very generous of you,” Castiel says. “But I’ll leave that decision to Dean.”

Dean considers it for a moment, then shakes his head. He isn’t afraid of Crowley. And Victor has already done enough. “I think your part in this has ended,” he tells him.

“If that changes, you know where to find me.” Victor stands and extends his hand to Dean, who takes it between both of his and holds it for a moment, doing his best to convey his gratitude, which he seems unable to voice. Judging by the slight smile on Victor’s face, he understands.

“Thank you, Constable Henriksen,” Castiel says. “You are a credit to Bow Street indeed.”

Victor bows respectfully. “Thank you, my lord,” he says. “I wish you both luck.”

They leave the office in silence, but when they climb back into the waiting carriage, Castiel pauses before instructing the driver to take them home. “Do you wish to go now?” he asks carefully.

It would likely be better to get this over with. And the faster they move, they faster their progress will be. “Yes.”

Castiel grimaces. “Where to?”

Dean instructs the driver on where to go, and despite his clear surprise at being asked to take them to such a neighbourhood, they’re soon on their way. Dean falls silent as they pass along the streets, and Castiel doesn’t interrupt him, his own face brooding. 

Eventually, the silence is too thick, too tense for Dean to bear. “You don’t have to come inside,” he says, not meeting Castiel’s eyes. “I’m sure you do not wish to be reminded of what I’ve done. What I am.”

Castiel inhales sharply, snapping to attention. “Is that what you think?” he asks, incredulous. “That I disapprove of this plan because I can’t bear to remember the difficulties of your past?”

Dean shrugs, uneasy. “Why would you?” he says. “Why would you want to see the place I lived before you, the place I fought so hard to escape from? We’ve been pretending, these last few months, pretending everything is fine, but I cannot escape my past, Castiel, no matter how much I wish to.”

“And I know that,” Castiel says, sliding across the carriage seat so he’s directly opposite Dean and gently taking hold of his hand. “Dean. It’s not my comfort I’m concerned with. I’ve never forgotten what you’ve endured in order to be here with me today. Never. I am concerned for you, for what memories this place, that man, might bring to the surface.”

Dean doesn’t how to respond to this. He never does. The way Castiel can make such statements never fails to amaze him. “I can endure anything with you at my side,” he says quietly, and when Castiel smiles at him, he knows it’s the truth.

The carriage comes to a halt a few moments later, and Dean takes a deep breath. He allows Castiel to help him down, and then he pushes open the door to his former living place. He will not think of it home, because it never was.

Amara is lounging in the front room, looking beautiful and bored as always, but her eyebrows raise with interest as she recognizes Dean. “Well, well,” she murmurs. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

“We’re here for matters of business, not pleasure,” Castiel says firmly.

But Amara just smiles, standing and stretching so the long lines of her body are on full display. “My lord, our business is pleasure.”

“Not today,” Castiel says, and Dean is gratified to note he barely looks at Amara despite her shameless posturing. “We’d like to speak with Crowley.”

Amara looks at Dean. “You’ve risen far, little one,” she says, almost admiring. “Found yourself a protector, I see. And a handsome one at that. Well done.”

Dean gives her a tight smile, displeased at the term she uses to describe his relationship with Castiel, but determined to see this through. “Please tell Crowley we’re here.”

“Very well,” she says with sigh. She affects an air of boredom, but Dean knows that as soon as they’re gone, she’ll be gossiping about this encounter with all the other girls and boys. 

Amara disappears into another room, and returns minutes later with Crowley in tow. She must have told him who was there, because he shows no surprise upon seeing Dean. He does, however, look slightly taken aback at the sight of Castiel. His establishment doesn’t often attract such wealthy and respected clients.

“Good afternoon, my lord,” he says, ignoring Dean completely. “I understand you wished to see me.”

“I did not, in fact,” Castiel says. Dean has never heard his voice so cool. “It was only at Dean’s insistence that we came.”

“Indeed,” Crowley says, finally giving Dean his attention. “Well then. Step this way, gentlemen.”

He leads them back into his parlour, offering tea or brandy, both of which are declined. “Why are you here?” he finally asks. “Come to berate me for all the years you spent under my roof, hmn? Now that you keep company with a lord, you think yourself above this place?”

“No,” Dean replies, managing to keep his voice steady. “I need your help.”

Crowley stares at him for a moment, then an oily grin spreads across his face. “I’m listening.”

“I need to find someone,” Dean continues. “A young man. He would be eighteen or nineteen years old now. He went missing shortly before I came to work for you.”

“That was a long time ago,” Crowley says. “He’s likely dead by now.”

Dean flinches, and Castiel lays a calming hand on his shoulder. Crowley’s eyes follow the movement, assessing, and when he looks back at Dean, there’s something different in his eyes. 

“Nevertheless, we believe you may be able to help us determine what happened to him,” Castiel goes on. “You will, of course, be well-compensated for your efforts.”

Crowley frowns, considering. “Who is it you’re looking for?” he asks Dean. 

Dean doesn’t want to tell him, but he must. “My brother. His name is Sam.”

“A little brother,” Crowley says quietly. “How sweet. Very well, gentlemen, we have a deal. I shall make enquiries. I’ll send a lad with a note if I discover anything. Payment to be determined according to effort required.”

Castiel nods, then digs a purse from his coat and drops it on the table with a heavy thunk. “A goodwill token,” he declares. “And an encouragement.”

Crowley picks up the purse, weighing it with an expert hand, and smiles. “A pleasure doing business with you,” he says. “Are you sure you have no interest in anything else today?”

“Goodbye, Crowley.” Dean rises and signals to Castiel to do the same. He won’t spend a minute longer here than necessary.

Amara smirks at them as they leave, but thankfully offers no further commentary. The fresh air outside feels like a blessing after the stale warmth of the brothel, and Dean gasps it in gratefully. Castiel places a comforting hand on his back to steady him. “I’m alright,” Dean murmurs, though he leans into the touch. “I’m alright.”

“You did so well,” Castiel tells him. “Now, let’s go home, hmn?”

Dean nods, and they sit pressed close against each other in the carriage, Castiel’s arms wrapped around him and Dean’s head buried against his chest. This will all be worth it, Dean thinks, if it leads to them finding Sam.


	4. Chapter 4

“You’re quiet this morning,” Celeste comments, setting down her pen and focusing her attention on Dean through the doorway. “Is everything alright?”

Dean makes a dismissive gesture with one hand. “I’m concentrating on my task,” he replies. “I have been given a most sacred responsibility: the tying of the garlands.”

Celeste rolls her eyes, but her smile is fond. “And a fine job you’re doing,” she says approvingly. “It looks wonderful, Dean, truly.”

“It does,” Gilda echoes, slipping an arm around Celeste’s shoulder and smiling up at Dean, who stands at the top of the stairs, carefully arranging the greenery he has tied to the banister. 

He takes a step back to admire his efforts, the satisfaction of a job well done settling over him. Decorating for Celeste and Gilda’s charity ball has been a most welcome distraction over the past few days, and he’s enjoyed himself far more than he expected to. 

“What shall my next task be?” he asks, descending the stairs and entering the parlour, making his way towards the ladies. “Chopping wood for the fires? Preparing the refreshments?”

“If you’re half as good at cooking as you are at decorating, I’m sure we could come to an arrangement. Though Cook wouldn’t like it much. She’s rather territorial about her kitchen.” Celeste gives him a conspiratorial wink. “I’m sure you could charm her, though.”

“Dean could charm just about anyone, my dear,” Gilda says. “Perhaps we ought to have him be the one to explain to the Dowager Duchess of Dovedale why the ball is taking place on the same day she hoped to hold her own soiree.”

Dean winces at the thought. “It would be impertinent of me,” he protests. “Being so far below her in station.”

“I would never subject you to her,” Celeste assures him, patting his arm. “We will make our gracious apologies and proceed as planned. She will make loud complaints and arrive despite them. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Dean shakes his head, marveling at the way they navigate such tensions with ease. No matter how much time passes, this world still feels so foreign to him. But Celeste and Gilda are so patient with him, and so appreciative of all his help, that he thinks he might be able to enjoy the ball purely out of a sense of accomplishment. It’s a good thing they’re doing, and he’s proud to be part of it. 

It feels like penance, somehow. 

“Have you decided what you’ll be wearing?” Gilda asks. “Or do you plan to surprise us all?”

“I doubt anyone will notice or care what I wear,” Dean murmurs, flushing. 

“I daresay Lord Castiel will,” Celeste remarks wickedly. Gilda gives her a reproving look, but the corner of her mouth twitches with a repressed smile. “I suspect he’ll care a great deal.”

Dean laughs, acknowledging the point with a nod. “You’re right. He did mention something about it earlier, but my thoughts were otherwise occupied.”

Celeste’s face softens, goes grave. “Sam?” she asks.

“As ever.”

Gilda looks between the two of them and leans down to press a light kiss to her wife’s cheek. “I’ll leave you,” she says. “Lovely to see you, as always, Dean.”

He manages a slight bow before she sweeps out of the room, closing the door behind her. He knows Celeste has told Gilda everything about him, and he has no issue with that. There are no secrets between them, and he respects that. In turn, Gilda respects that while she and Dean have become fond of one another, they are not nearly as close as he and Celeste, and she does not begrudge them their private conversations, for which Dean is grateful.

“Has there been any progress?” Celeste asks once they’re alone. 

Dean sighs, dropping into the chair beside hers. “No,” he says wearily. “Nothing yet. Some days, I spend hours not thinking about it at all. And then it will resurface, a flood of anticipation, the expectation of what is to come.”

“We knew it would take time,” Celeste reminds him gently. 

“Yes,” Dean agrees. “I am learning that I am not a patient person.”

She laughs, then, and nudges his shoulder with her own. “I disagree,” she says. “You tied my garlands with the patience and precision of a master craftsman.”

“So why can I not do the same here?” he asks.

“Because it’s a far more emotional situation,” she answers. “Dean. You’re accustomed to taking action yourself, to carrying all the burdens of those around you. It troubles you, to feel powerless, yes?”

“Yes,” he murmurs, looking away from the terrible compassion on her face.

“You are doing everything in your power to find your brother,” she continues. 

“I could be out there, scouring the streets.” It’s an absurd rejoinder, but it’s the thought that haunts Dean at night, after Castiel has fallen asleep and he continues to lie awake. 

“If it would make you feel better, I’d accompany you myself. But I doubt it would do any good.”

The image of Celeste, in her fine gowns and dainty shoes, marching determinedly through the muck of London’s streets, interrogating orphans and miscreants alike, brings a rueful smile to Dean’s face. “I’d enjoy that, I think,” he says.

“After the ball, then,” she says breezily, but then sobers once more. “Please do not lose hope, my friend.”

“I won’t,” Dean promises. “Though I may misplace it temporarily.”

She smiles at him then, and he returns the gesture. Her optimism never fails to bolster his own. 

“And now, on to the bouquets!” she announces with a grin. “There are only a few more days until the ball, and we have much work to do.”

Dean pushes up the sleeves of his shirt, having shed his coat hours ago, and accepts the bundle of ribbons she passes to him. He will throw himself into preparations for this ball with enthusiasm and passion, and he will do his best to keep his occasional dark thoughts from taking root in his mind. 

And besides, Celeste made an interesting point, earlier. Perhaps he should ask Castiel if he has given any thought to their outfits for their ball. It will be their first public appearance together since Castiel learned the truth about Dean, and that alone ought to make it a memorable evening.

***

Dean spends more time at Celeste and Gilda’s residence than he does at his own over the next week. Castiel joins them in the evenings, after his own business is concluded for the day, and Dean brightens in their company, basking in the easy affection that they have so naturally extended to him. He forgets to be nervous about the upcoming ball, and while he often wonders about the state of Crowley’s investigations, he is able to think of the matter without despair.

On the day before the ball, Dean wakes early, intending to depart for Celeste’s home in order to assist with any last-minute preparations. He untangles himself from Castiel’s warm embrace, but before he can slip from the bed, his lover’s eyes crack open, peering at him in the dark.

“It’s far too early,” Castiel murmurs. “Stay a little longer.”

“You’re the one who encouraged me to help Celeste arrange this ball,” Dean reminds him. 

“A grievous error on my part,” Castiel replies. “I did not realize it would necessitate you leaving at such ungodly hours. We will be out late tomorrow evening, dancing away. You ought to rest while you can.”

As he speaks, he reaches out and pulls Dean back against him. Dean goes willingly, a little laugh escaping him as Castiel buries his head in his shoulder and sighs in contentment. 

“Somehow, I doubt rest is what is on your mind,” Dean comments, shifting back so he can feel the press of Castiel’s morning erection against his backside. 

“Clever man,” Castiel whispers into the bare skin at the side of his neck, hands trailing down Dean’s torso and resting at his hips, tantalizing close to where Dean suddenly, desperately wants them to be.

“Castiel…” Dean murmurs. “Please.”

“I thought you had to leave.” 

Dean rolls over to face him, rolling his eyes at the pleased smirk on his face. “You,” he remarks, “are not amusing.”

Castiel laughs, the faint lines around his eyes deepening as he does. He leans forward and kisses Dean, briefly at first, but with increasing intensity. Dean sighs into it and presses himself closer, their limbs tangling together as their breathing quickens. He will never, never tire of this. 

He rolls them over so that Castiel is on his back, amazed as always by how willingly he allows Dean to take the lead like this. Castiel looks up at him, his adoration evident in every line of his face, and Dean leans down to kiss him again as he ungracefully pushes down their drawers, leaving them bare against one another. 

Castiel’s hands settle on his hips as Dean reaches over and finds the small jar of oil they keep near at hand. He raises one eyebrow in question, but Dean simply says, “Trust me.”

“I do,” Castiel replies, and Dean’s heart turns over his chest. He occupies himself with pouring a generous amount of the oil over his hand, then shifting slightly so their groins are in better alignment.

A shaky breath escapes Dean as he gathers both of their straining lengths in his oiled hand, and Castiel twitches beneath him, but then visibly gathers himself, his eyes slipping closed as Dean begins to stroke them. He’s gorgeous like this, the strong lines of his body bared to Dean’s gaze, the flush that spreads across his chest matched by the one that stains his cheeks. As Dean twists his hand around them, Castiel’s grip tightens on his hips, pulling him in closer.

“Dean,” he whispers, his eyes opening. “That feels…”

“I know,” Dean murmurs in reply, tilting his own head back as he increases the speed of his movements, his hips rocking forward as he chases the flood of sensations towards its inevitable end. “Always so good.”

“So good,” Castiel echoes, his words muffled by the pillow as he turns his head to the side. With his free hand, Dean reaches out and turns Castiel’s face back towards his, cradling his cheek in his palm, and their eyes lock together as Castiel lets out a helpless cry and comes, spilling hot and wet over Dean’s hand. 

Dean leans down to kiss him, and Castiel responds eagerly, pulling him forward and reaching down between them to take Dean’s cock in hand. Dean shudders and bucks forward into his grasp, so close to his own climax already. It only takes a few strokes of Castiel’s warm, knowing hand before he follows him into bliss.

He collapses forward on Castiel’s chest, both of them sticky and spent, and lets out a breathless little laugh. “Good morning,” he says into the crook of Castiel’s shoulder.

“Good morning indeed,” Castiel replies, tracing lazy circles on his back with his clean hand. “You see, my cunning plan was a success. You enjoy the afterglow far too much to pull yourself away now.”

Dean grumbles, but he knows Castiel is correct. He has little motivation to leave the bed or Castiel’s arms now. 

“Five more minutes,” he declares. “Or Celeste will have my head.”

Castiel presses a kiss into his hair and Dean feels him nod. “Five more minutes,” he agrees.

Not entirely unexpectedly, they both doze back off, and at least half an hour passes before Dean rouses himself once more, grimacing at the way their shared release has grown cold and sticky on his skin. He shakes Castiel lightly by the shoulder, then rings the bell by the side of the bed to let Alfie know they’re ready to bathe and dress for the day. 

They’re just descending the stairs in search of breakfast when they hear the knock at the front door of the house. Castiel continues on his path to the dining room, but Dean hesitates, lingering in the hall as Alfie goes to answer. It’s most likely a caller for Castiel or some new message from Celeste concerning tomorrow’s festivities, but what if…

Alfie turns to look at Dean, his eyes wide, and Dean stops, pressing a hand to his chest to contain the sudden wild beating of his heart. With a gesture, Alfie beckons the caller inside: it’s Crowley, dressed in his finest, looking not at all uncomfortable in this part of the city. And he isn’t alone. He’s accompanied by an unfamiliar young woman, the rough quality of her dress standing out against the fine furnishings of Castiel’s home. 

Dean doesn’t take his eyes off the visitors as he swallows roughly and calls back for Castiel. “My lord?” he says, impressed at the steadiness of his own voice. “We have guests.”

Castiel re-emerges into the hall, his eyes widening as he comes to a sudden halt beside Dean. “Mister Crowley,” he says slowly. “Welcome. And to your companion.”

“No need for ceremony with us,” Crowley says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “We have news.”

Dean nods and leads them into the parlour, Castiel bringing up the rear. He shuts the door behind him and waves them into the seats by the fire, then comes to stand beside Dean, his presence comforting and steadying.

“What news?” Dean asks. He keeps most of his attention on Crowley, though his gaze occasionally flickers to his companion, who seems content to remain quiet until called upon.

Crowley grins at him, a smug, all-too-familiar expression. “You made a wise decision, reaching out to me,” he says. “At first, I thought I would have little to offer. Your brother was so young when he vanished, and he would have been of no interest to me. But I began to consider who else might have had an eye on the streets of London around that time, and that led me in the proper direction. Led me to Miss Wilson, here.”

Miss Wilson dips her head, and at an encouraging nod from Castiel, picks up where Crowley left off. “I knew Sam,” she says quietly.

Dean tenses at her use of the past tense. “Is he--” He cannot bear to say the words aloud.

“I don’t know,” she replies, a terrible pity in her eyes. “I haven’t seen him in nearly four years.”

Dean exhales loudly, and Castiel places a hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps,” he suggests to Miss Wilson, “you ought to start at the beginning.”

“Of course,” she says. “My apologies.” She takes a deep breath and visibly gathers her composure, and despite his inner turmoil, Dean is struck by her poise. 

“I grew up in London,” Miss Wilson says, “but after my parents passed, I was left with nowhere to go but the streets. I spent a few months surviving on my own, stealing and scrambling for scraps of food. And then,” she pauses, a distant look entering her eyes, “he found me. The yellow-eyed man.”

“Yellow-eyed man?” Dean repeats, somewhat skeptical. It sounds like something from a child’s bedtime story. 

“He had a name, of course, but we never knew it,” Miss Wilson replies. “We just called him Yellow Eyes. He offered me a meal, a warm place to sleep, and I took it, naturally. I wasn’t the only one.”

A sick feeling settles in the pit of Dean’s stomach. “And what he did require in return?” he asks. Castiel gives him a surprised look, as though the thought never crossed his mind, and it almost makes Dean laugh. Of course Yellow Eyes would have wanted something in exchange. No one’s motives were pure on the mean, lean London streets.

Miss Wilson casts a distasteful look towards Crowley. “Not as much as you might expect,” she answers. “Nothing we weren’t already accustomed to doing. We stole, we lied, we swindled. But we worked together, going where he directed, using each other as distractions while we performed the sleight of hand. Yellow Eyes profited well from us, and we were more comfortable than we would be on our own.”

Dean nods, relieved. “And Sam?” he asks, tensing.

A fond expression crosses Miss Wilson’s face. “He joined the group not long after I did. He was quiet, but kind. And clever, so clever. Yellow-Eyes was so pleased with him, and he soon became somewhat of a leader amongst us, though many others had been with Yellow-Eyes longer.”

Dean exhales shakily. So Sam found his way to a less than ordinary life, but a better one than Dean experienced, from what Miss Wilson is describing. “When was this?” he asks, just to be sure. It could have taken time for Sam to be found by Yellow-Eyes, and God knows what could have happened in that time.

She frowns as she considers the question. “Perhaps six years ago?” she answers eventually. “It feels so far away, now.”

The timing is right. “And did Sam say ever where he had been before he joined you?”

Her answer is far more decisive this time. “Yes. He mentioned an older brother quite frequently, especially at the beginning. I assume he must have meant you. He was always looking for you, always hoping you might turn up on one of our missions, hoping you might be reunited.”

“I should have tried harder to find him,” Dean mutters, a yawning pit opening in his chest. “I looked, of course, but he was looking too, and how could he have known I was…” he trails off, looking at Crowley and flinching back from the memories. “He must have thought I abandoned him.”

Castiel’s hand settles on his arm, his touch reassuring. “I’m sure he thought no such thing,” he says softly. 

“I cannot say for certain what he though,” Miss Wilson states, “but I know he missed you terribly.”

Dean closes his eyes and wills himself not to crumble. He always knew the truth would hurt, but imagining his brother as he last saw him, gangly and earnest, wondering where his brother had gone, is a pain he could never have predicted. “What happened?” he ventures. “You say you met Sam six years ago, but have not seen him in nearly four. What happened?”

Her laugh is bitter. “What usually happens when men are cruel, and greedy, and grasping,” she says. “They are removed from the board by others who seek their power for themselves. Yellow-Eyes was murdered. We never knew by whom. But he was our connection, our protection, and without him, we scattered. We were too frightened that we might be next.”

Whatever hope was growing inside Dean fades away in that instant. “And you never saw him again?”

She shakes her head sadly. “He left London,” she says. “Or he planned to. He took what little money he had from his last job under Yellow-Eyes and said he would go seek his fortune elsewhere. He asked me to go with him, but London is my home, no matter how cruelly it has treated me. I had no wish to go anywhere else. So we said our goodbyes.”

A dead end, then. Dean casts a beseeching look up at Castiel, unable to form the proper words. And Castiel, ever astute, continues for him. “Is there anything else you can tell us?” he asks gently.

Miss Wilson shrugs lightly. “Sam was one of the strongest people I’ve ever known,” she says. “I don’t know what has become of him, but I do not think he would have been beaten down by his lot in life. Wherever he is, whatever he is doing, I believe he is happy, or working hard to become so. I hope he is.”

Throat tight, Dean just nods. “Thank you,” he manages. “For everything you’ve told me. And for being a friend to Sam when he needed one most.”

She nods back and stands, recognizing the conversation has reached its inevitable end. “I wish you luck in finding him,” she offers. “If you do, please tell him I shall always think fondly of him.”

“Of course,” Dean replies automatically. “Of course I will.”

He starts to extend a hand to her, but realizes his hands are shaking and tucks them back against his sides, shrinking back. Castiel glances down and a flash of something Dean can’t decipher crosses his face. “Sit,” he instructs under his breath. “I’ll escort them out.”

Dean starts to protest, but falters under Castiel’s stern expression. Miss Wilson is watching them with interest and perhaps a touch of pity, but then with a small smile, she turns and leaves. 

Crowley rises to his feet, but pauses before leaving the room. He stops in front of Dean’s chair, and then, to Dean’s amazement, he says, “I’m sorry.”

Both Dean and Castiel turn shocked faces to him, and his mouth twists bitterly. “I truly wish we had better news for you,” he continues. “Farewell, Dean. I doubt we shall see one another again.”

Castiel recovers enough to lead him from the room, and Dean hears their murmured conversation fade away, something about fair recompense and their gratitude for Crowley finding Miss Wilson. He closes his eyes and remains in his seat, the warmth from the fireplace a stark contrast to the icy feeling in his chest. 

The creaking of the floor alerts him to Castiel’s presence, but he does not open his eyes. He feels him settle onto the arm of the chair, but he cannot find anything to say. After a moment of silence, he hears Castiel sigh, and then a tentative hand settles on his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry,” Castiel murmurs, voice thick with emotion. 

Dean shudders, but looks up at his words, and the raw sorrow on Castiel’s face is what breaks him entirely. The tears he’s been holding back begin to fall from his eyes, and Castiel makes a wounded noise and slides down beside him, immediately wrapping him in his arms. Dean chokes on his sobs and turns his face into Castiel’s chest, all his grief and regret pouring out of him.

“He must have been so scared,” Dean says, words muffled by the closeness of their embrace. “He was a child, Castiel, and he had no one left in the world.”

“Nor did you,” Castiel reminds him gently. “You must not blame yourself, Dean.”

“How can I not?” Dean asks bitterly between hiccups, his tears beginning to slow. “I should have tried harder to find him. Knowing he was looking for me as well…”

“You cannot change the past,” Castiel says. “You’re looking for him now, Dean. You must focus on that.”

“What hope is there in searching now?” Dean asks bleakly. “We’ve tried, Castiel. We were more successful than I dared to dream. But you heard Miss Wilson. He planned to leave London. If he did, the chances of finding anyone who knew him are near nonexistent.”

Castiel starts to say something else, but Dean shakes his head, interrupting him. “It was a foolish venture,” he says. “It ends here.”

“But look how much we’ve already learned,” Castiel protests. “And so quickly. Surely, with more time, more patience--”

“No.” The harshness of his voice startles even Dean, and Castiel flinches back, his eyes widening. Dean softens his tone and repeats himself. “No. I cannot--” he shudders, scrubbing away the last of his tears. “I cannot bear it. I’m not strong enough.”

“You’re far stronger than you give yourself credit for, my dear,” Castiel says, pressing a kiss to the top of Dean’s head. “But if this is what you truly wish, then I shall respect it.”

Dean murmurs his gratefulness into the side of Castiel’s neck, breathing in the smell of his hair, letting it calm him. Castiel’s arms are tight around him, and Dean has no desire to move from this place, afraid of what will happen if he allows himself to disturb the universe they’ve built for themselves. 

“I’ll have a note sent to Celeste,” Castiel says after a long moment has passed. “You’re in no state to assist with the ball, not today.”

Dean wants to argue, but he knows Castiel is right. “And I’m staying here with you,” Castiel continues, and a wave of relief crashes over Dean. He does not wish to be alone in his sorrow. 

“Can we--” he hates the weakness in his own voice, so he swallows and tries again. “Can we go back to bed?”

“Of course,” Castiel promises. “Go on, now. I’ll make arrangements for my affairs and join you shortly.”

Dean reluctantly allows Castiel to stand, and then rises to his own feet, slightly unsteady. He waves away Castiel’s outstretched hand, ready to assist him, and climbs slowly up the stairs, feeling Castiel’s eyes on him the entire way. He enters their chamber and drops heavily onto the bed, pausing only to remove his jacket before wrapping himself under the covers and shutting his eyes against the tears that threaten to spill forth once more. 

He failed Sam. Both six years ago, and again now. Failed in his responsibilities, failed in his search. “I’m sorry,” he whispers into the empty room. “I’m so sorry, Sam.”


	5. Chapter 5

The day of the ball dawns bright and clear, the early morning sunshine filtering through the curtains and rousing Dean from his fitful sleep. He turns over, but the other side of the bed is empty, no traces of Castiel’s warmth lingering on the sheets. Frowning, Dean rises and pulls a robe over his nightshirt, splashing his face with cold water to refresh himself, and goes in search of his lover. 

He finds Castiel in his study, muttering to himself as he scribbles away furiously. He doesn’t turn at the sound of the door opening, too absorbed in his task, and it allows Dean the chance to watch him silently for a moment, a small smile playing on his lips and an overwhelming sense of gratitude in his heart. 

He does not deserve this man. Castiel took such care with him the day before, his presence a comfort even in those darkest hours. And surely his own affairs must have suffered from his lack of attention, which explains why he’s writing so quickly now. Dean tightens the robe around himself and clears his throat awkwardly.

Castiel turns immediately at the sound, half-rising from his chair. “Good morning,” he says softly. 

“Good morning,” Dean echoes. He nods towards the stack of correspondence on the desk. “You’ve been busy.”

Castiel smiles, but it’s a tired attempt at his usual brilliant grin. In the morning sunlight, Dean can see faint lines around his eyes. It’s unlikely Castiel got much sleep the night before, occupied as he was with keeping Dean’s nightmares at bay, waking every time he did to soothe him back to sleep. Guilt churns in Dean’s stomach but he forces it down, summoning his own smile. 

“I’m leaving for Celeste’s shortly,” he announces. “But I will see you there tonight.”

“You still wish to attend?” Castiel asks, clearly surprised. “I thought--”

“Of course I still wish to attend,” Dean replies. “It’s important to Celeste, and it’s important to me. And I…” he trails off, swallowing roughly. “I’m fine.”

It’s incredibly far from the truth, but Dean has burdened Castiel enough with his troubles. He takes and he takes and he takes, but he can give Castiel this, this one night of music and dancing and flirtation. He can pretend that he is moving on, that he doesn’t still feel the crushing failure of their attempt to find Sam weighing heavily on his heart. 

“If you insist,” Castiel says, but there’s a doubtful cast to his features. “Are you sure you’re feeling--”

“I’m fine,” Dean repeats. He crosses the room and presses a kiss to Castiel’s lips. “Celeste will surely be panicking by now. I ought to go assist her in any way I can.”

“Yes, or she’ll have both our heads,” Castiel jokes weakly. He cups Dean’s face carefully in one hand, and Dean closes his eyes against the tenderness of the gesture. “I shall see you tonight.”

Dean gives him one last, lingering kiss, then tears himself away. After a quick breakfast, he dresses in comfortable clothing and arranges with Alfie to have his outfit for the ball sent to Celeste’s residence later in the day. No sense ruining his new clothes with menial work if that is what Celeste requires of him.

They never explained to her why Dean was unable to help with preparations the day before. Dean knows she will ask, and he knows he will lie when she does. If he tells her the truth, tells her that he has lost hope of finding his brother, she will be too concerned about him to properly enjoy her evening. She has worked so hard on this, and Dean refuses to be the cause of it falling apart now. 

So he brushes off her concern when he arrives, fabricates some story about a pounding headache and not wanting it to worsen before the big event, and she seems satisfied. Gilda gives him a searching glance, but then looks at her wife as she takes Dean by the arm and explains what remains to be done, and a look of understanding crosses her face. She may suspect something more is amiss, but Gilda will not mention it, Dean is certain. He gives her a grateful nod and permits Celeste to lead him away towards the ballroom.

It looks beautiful, and for a moment, it does distract Dean from his misery. The room is decorated in shades of gold and cream, with bouquets of flowers on the long tables that will hold the refreshments. The floor has been polished to a perfect shine, and every inch of the room is spotless, gleaming in the light of the candles. 

“Celeste, it looks marvellous,” Dean says, giving her a little bow. “It will be the talk of the town, I’m sure.”

“I hope so,” she replies, pushing an errant lock of hair behind her ear. “The guest list is all confirmed, the staff have been given their instructions, and-- oh! The musicians!”

She darts away, Dean and Gilda trailing in her wake, exchanging amused glances. “What of the musicians?” Dean asks, catching up to her.

“We’ve changed a few of the normal selections,” Celeste says. “They have been rehearsing, but I must inform them of the changes. I want to surprise people, at least somewhat. Do something slightly different.”

As Dean still has very little knowledge of the intricate dances the nobility seem to learn from the time they walk, the music selections matter very little to him. But he does like the notion of dancing with Castiel again, and he imagines that if the music is new to both of them, his lack of practice will be less evident. He has no wish to embarrass Castiel in front of his peers. 

Several hours pass in a flurry of decision-making and shouted orders that leave Dean’s head spinning, and soon enough it’s time to dress for the evening. Celeste’s servants are polite and friendly as they assist him with the buttons on his newly-acquired coat, but he misses Alfie’s teasing. When he’s fully dressed, they procure a mirror for him to examine himself in, and Dean does so with a critical eye.

The new coat is deep burgundy, and his eyes seem to glow in contrast to its rich hue. He looks a tad pale, but once the dancing and the drinking begins he’ll gain some colour in his cheeks. He pushes a few strands of his hair off his face and shrugs, feeling the fabric of his coat ripple with his movement. “I suppose this will do,” he remarks.

“You look very handsome, my lord,” one of the young men says-- Dean thinks his name might be Aiden. Whether he means it or not, Dean cannot be certain, but there’s little else to be done at this point.

He’s glad to have arrived early to assist with the preparations, as it spares him from having to make a grand entrance in front of the other assembled guests. Instead, he’s greeted only by Celeste and Gilda upon his return to the ballroom, both looking radiant in shades of cream and gold to match the decor. He bows over their hands, and Celeste throws a charming grin at him as she curtseys in response. 

“You look magnificent,” she tells him, and Gilda murmurs her agreement. “Castiel won’t be able to take his eyes off you.”

Dean flushes at her words, but he desperately hopes she’s correct. He is not in the best mood for an evening of socialization, but if Castiel stays close to him, keeps him grounded against all the gossips, it will go much more smoothly for them both.

He hopes Castiel will be among the first guests to arrive. Celeste and Gilda are positioned at the entrance to the ballroom to greet everyone who enters, but Dean no longer has a designated role, so he presses himself into a corner of the room and tries to remain invisible. Some of the guests he recognizes from the few balls he attended while under Lord Zachariah’s supervision, but he has little desire to renew his acquaintance with them. He sees Lady Abaddon enter and he shudders, hoping she does not take notice of him. 

“What could possibly be keeping your attention in this far corner?” someone asks, and Dean turns to find Lord Joshua watching him with an amused twinkle in his eyes. At least he has been discovered by a friendly face. 

“It’s not so much something keeping my attention as my desire to not be what catches the attention of others,” Dean replies honestly. “But I am pleased to see you again, my lord.”

“I see you have not yet become accustomed to London life,” Joshua teases gently. 

“Progress is slow,” Dean agrees. 

“And now that your cousin Zachariah is no longer here to guide you…” There’s no malice in Joshua’s tone, only interest, but Dean tenses regardless. He has no wish to speak of his supposed cousin, but it would be difficult to avoid the subject entirely, he supposes.

“Yes,” he replies carefully. “But I am fortunate to have made good friends in Lady Celeste and Lady Gilda, who have been very kind to me in my cousin’s absence.”

Joshua raises one eyebrow, amused. “Absence,” he repeats. “How delicate.”

It’s not incorrect. Lord Zachariah is indeed absent from the ballrooms and clubs of London, currently rotting away in a dank, dark prison cell. Dean, Castiel, and Victor were able to weave elements of the truth into a fairly plausible story: that Lord Zachariah became enraged at the thought of Castiel courting his cousin, due to the bad blood between them, and plotted to have him killed with the aid of his longtime companion, Uriel. To all those who knew Lord Zachariah, such a thing was not at all difficult to believe, particularly those who remembered the tenseness between he and Castiel.

Joshua, however, is regarding Dean with a keen gaze that makes Dean nervous. He wonders if Joshua is aware there is more to the story, if Joshua knows he is not who he claims to be. He does not believe Joshua would expose him, but would anyone else be able to draw the same conclusion?

Fortunately, he is saved from further questioning by a flurry of activity at the entrance to the ballroom. The Dowager Duchess of Dovedale has arrived, and the assembled guests are scrambling to make their respectful bows and curtseys as she sweeps into the room. Dean shrinks back into his corner and prays not to be noticed.

In her wake, Castiel enters, and Dean smiles, convinced that he timed his arrival to closely follow the Duchess’ so as not to draw much attention to himself. And he seems to have been successful: few people are looking his way as he greets Celeste and Gilda with a low bow and fond kisses to their hands. Then he turns away, scanning the room, and when he catches sight of Dean, an expression of pure joy crosses his face.

They move towards one another across the steadily-filling room, and meet somewhere in the middle, eyes locked. Dean bows, and Castiel mirrors him instinctively, but the motion is perfunctory. He straightens up quickly and reaches out to place a careful hand on Dean’s shoulder, his gaze frank and admiring.

“You look stunning,” Castiel says, too quietly for anyone else to overhear. 

“As do you,” Dean replies, taking in the way Castiel’s dark grey coat hugs his firm chest and broad shoulders, the way the muscles in his thighs are revealed by the tight fit of his breeches. “Must we stay any longer?”

Castiel tips his head back as he laughs, and a few curious pairs of eyes turn their way. He ignores them, leading Dean back away from the centre of the room. “At least a little while longer,” he says. “We have not yet had a dance.”

“A compelling argument,” Dean says lightly, allowing a smile to creep onto his face. “I do enjoy a good dance.” 

It’s easy, to slip back into this kind of flirtation. And unlike their first encounters at balls such as this, Dean is not trying to seduce Castiel. There’s no need for that, not now. But his flirtation is still not entirely honest, still employed with the aim of distracting Castiel from the sadness that threatens to creep across Dean’s face. 

The other guests present a distraction of their own, intrigued to see Castiel and Dean together in spite of the mild scandal surrounding their relationship. They cluster in groups of two or three, asking politely vague questions that nevertheless send Dean into a state of panic, hoping he will not say anything too revealing. Castiel deflects their inquiries with his usual poise and grace, and Dean pays careful attention to the way he manages to do so without causing any offense, hoping one day he can do the same. 

Soon enough, the dancing begins, and the guests draw back as Celeste and Gilda take to the floor. As he watches them, a more natural smile finds its way to Dean’s lips. They are utterly entranced with one another, and they move through the patterns of the dance with a grace and intimacy visible to all.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they,” Castiel murmurs, his breath warm against Dean’s ear.

“They are,” he agrees. 

He wonders what he and Castiel look like when they dance together, if they are anywhere near as perfectly-matched. Or if his own roughness is evident, the differences between them stark and painful. It should not matter-- he knows how he feels when Castiel holds him close, he knows the way they look at one another. The views of others should not concern him, but they do. 

The music ends, and the room bursts into applause as Celeste and Gilda make their curtseys. Gilda leans close to whisper something into Celeste’s ear and she flushes prettily, a grin stealing across her face. The sight of them makes Dean ache, but also fills him with joy, to know that his friend is so loved.

As the musicians begin to play again, Castiel extends a hand to Dean with a slight bow. “Shall we dance?” he asks, his voice low, his eyes warm.

“We shall,” Dean replies, and takes Castiel’s hand in his own. 

He stumbles a few times, his nerves getting the better of him, but Castiel’s hand at his waist is a steadying, familiar weight, and he guides Dean effortlessly. When he notices the way Dean’s gaze wanders around the room, he reaches out and lightly turns his face forward again. “Look at me,” he instructs gently. “Do not pay the others any mind.”

“They are watching us,” Dean protests. He has caught more than one person glancing their way as they twirl and turn about the room. 

“Yes, and it will drive them mad to see that you are not doing the same,” Castiel responds.

It startles Dean into laughter, and Castiel’s lips twitch in shared amusement. He presses himself closer, and Castiel’s arms tighten around him, and finally, the rest of the world seems to fall away. His worries, his grief, his own sense of failure, it all vanishes, at least for the moment. All of his senses are overwhelmed by Castiel: the warmth of their joined hands, the scent of his cologne, the quiet sound of his breathing. He only wishes to press their lips together, to chase the taste of him that he knows so well, but he holds himself back, mindful of the others in the room. 

The next dance is at a faster pace, and while Dean does miss a few steps, he is surprised to find he does not care. He allows himself to be guided by the music and by Castiel’s gentle nudges, and the delighted grin on Castiel’s face tells him that he is not the only one enjoying the way they move around one another in time with the music. 

When the piece ends, they come to a halt, both of them breathing more heavily than normal. There’s a flush to Castiel’s cheeks and a twinkle in his blue eyes that pull at the strings of Dean’s heart, and when Castiel raises his hand to his lips and presses a kiss to it, Dean knows he is utterly lost, now and forever. 

The air between them is charged, and Castiel opens his mouth to say something, but before the words can emerge, Celeste appears beside him and and smiles brightly at them both.

“There you are!” she exclaims. “I apologize for not coming to greet you sooner, but the duties of a hostess are more time-consuming than I had anticipated.”

“No apologies needed,” Castiel says fondly, and whatever he had been about to say to Dean is lost. “I am surprised you found time for us at all.”

“Nonsense,” Celeste insists. “I came to demand a dance from you, my lord.”

“How could I possibly refuse?” Castiel laughs. “As long as--” he casts an inquiring look at Dean, who waves them away with a fond smile. 

He watches Castiel and Celeste dance together, amused by the way Celeste pours so much of her energy into every move. They must have done this a thousand times, he reflects, in the years before Celeste and Gilda were married, two friends who sought escape from the pressure of society’s expectations by dancing together to avoid any other entanglements. He would have liked to have known them then, but he is happy to at least know them now. 

“They have always made such a delightful pair,” a light voice says from behind Dean. 

He turns to face the newcomer, a lean, sandy-haired man perhaps a decade older than Castiel, who watches the dancing pair with a fond look in his eyes. Dean does not recognize him from any of the gatherings he has previously attended, which makes him wary. He speaks with familiarity, but whether it is towards Castiel or Celeste or both, Dean cannot be sure.

“Are you acquainted with our hostess?” he asks politely. 

“Only slightly,” the man replies. He turns his gaze to Dean and offers a slight bow. “Lord Balthazar Dupont. I have only recently returned to London for the first time in many years. Perhaps this is why we do not know each other, my young friend.”

“Dean Winchester,” Dean replies with a bow of his own. “You are from France?” He should have recognized the faint accent straight away. They had no shortage of foreign visitors to the brothel.

“Yes, though I spent some time here in London in my younger days,” Lord Balthazar replies. His eyes have wandered back to the dancers. “There are many friendships I should like to renew now that I have returned.”

His statement only adds to Dean’s unease, but he does his best to dismiss it. “Did you only just arrive?” he asks, continuing to keep his questions and his tone polite. 

“This very evening,” Lord Balthazar says. “I asked around as to which social event to attend, and was told I could not miss Lady Celeste’s charity ball, and so, here I am.”

The music ends, sparing Dean from needing to reply as they applaud lightly and the dancers scatter across the room. He watches as Castiel kisses Celeste’s hand and she disappears back into the crowd before Castiel turns towards him. He smiles, and Castiel responds with a smile of his own, but then his eyes go wide, and Dean feels the first icy chill of uncertainty steal over his body. 

Castiel moves quickly in Dean’s direction, but he is no longer looking at him. His eyes are fixed on Lord Balthazar, and an expression of pure happiness is taking shape on his face. 

“Castiel,” Lord Balthazar murmurs, moving past Dean, arms outstretched. Castiel rushes into his embrace, murmuring something that sounds like a shortened version of Lord Balthazar’s name, and with that one syllable, Dean’s world comes shattering down around him. 

They know each other, in every sense of the word. It is written in every line of their bodies, on every inch of their faces. Dean swallows roughly, unable to look away from them and yet wishing he never witnessed this reunion. 

After a few moments, they pull apart, but Castiel continues to gaze at Balthazar with such fondness on his face that Dean’s unease deepens. He cannot hear their murmured conversation, which only increases the air of intimacy between them. Would it ease his discomfort, he wonders, to know what they are saying? Or would it only make things worse?

But then he catches his own name, and Castiel is gesturing him forward with a beckoning hand, and Dean goes to him instinctively. 

“Balthazar, may I introduce a dear friend of mine, Dean Winchester?” Castiel says, gripping Dean lightly by the elbow. 

“We’ve met,” Dean says, taken aback by the coldness in his own voice. “Just now.”

Balthazar lifts one eyebrow at him, a light of recognition appearing in his eyes. “You called me ‘dear friend’ once,” he says, arching an eyebrow at Castiel, and though he sounds more amused than anything else, his words are another blow to Dean’s already fragile heart. 

“Balthazar,” Castiel protests mildly. “Must you be so indelicate?”

“You should know better than to attempt to shield me from indelicacy, my lord,” Dean says, forcing a smile to his lips. 

Castiel laughs, acknowledging his point. “Lord Balthazar and I have been friends for many years,” he says, turning to Dean. “But his presence here tonight is quite a surprise to me.”

“How exciting for you both,” Dean replies with an enthusiasm he does not feel. “Unexpected reunions are one of the great joys in life.”

If Castiel catches his meaning, he does not respond to it. The music begins again, and Balthazar offers a brief bow to Dean. “Would you permit an old friend to take your dear friend for a turn about the floor?” he asks, perfectly civil. 

Dean nods, but before he can say more, Balthazar has tugged Castiel out onto the floor and they are spinning around each other, their faces bright and joyful. The image is strangely familiar, and Dean’s legs go unsteady when he realizes why.

They look much the way Celeste and Gilda did, dancing together. Their bodies seem to move effortlessly around each other, no traces of the hesitation Dean always feels during a dance. Lord Balthazar wears his fine clothing like he was born to it, because he was. Unlike Dean, who still pulls at the collars of his shirts and always manages to turn his carefully-tied cravat into a sad pile of silk by the end of the night. Balthazar is charming and polished and rich, and his hair gleams gold in the candlelight, a perfect contrast to Castiel’s dark head.

Lord Balthazar would not have to spend his days secretly hiding in the library to practice his reading. He would not have to remain at home while Castiel went about his business. He could be a true partner, someone who could help Castiel muddle through the expectations of society rather than burdening him further. Lord Balthazar would not divert Castiel’s attention with a mad quest for a long-lost brother and then require his comfort when that quest came to its inevitable end. 

It would be easier if Dean could hate him. If he could sneer at him, could dismiss him as some frivolous fool, a remnant from Castiel’s past who has no place in his life now. But Dean knows Castiel, and he can see the fondness on his face as he dances with Balthazar now. Their bond is real. Who is Dean to stand in its way? He knows Castiel cares for him, but it is evident he cares for Balthazar as well. And Dean can offer him nothing. 

He wonders if perhaps he ought to leave now. Hold his head high and escape while Castiel’s attention is focused elsewhere. He could make some excuse to Celeste, claim his headache from the day before has returned, and leave London tonight. 

But he owes Castiel more than that, more than an abrupt departure with no explanation or goodbye. So he waits until the piece comes to its end, and he applauds politely as Castiel and Balthazar make their final bows to one another, and he pastes a smile on his face as they walk towards him. 

“Perhaps you might do me the honour of the next dance?” Balthazar suggests. There is no malice in his voice, only open friendliness, but Dean cannot find it in himself to agree. To pretend civility when his heart is breaking, to listen to Balthazar tell tales of Castiel when they were younger…

No. That is one thing Dean simply could not bear.

He raises his hand to his mouth as though covering a yawn and shakes his head with what he hopes is believable regret. “I find myself quite tired,” he lies. “I believe I ought to retire for the evening.”

Castiel is instantly alert, leaving Balthazar’s side to cup Dean’s elbow and peer into his face. “You do look rather pale,” he says. “I’ll have the carriage brought around immediately.”

“No,” Dean says immediately. “No, you ought to stay.”

“If you do not feel well--”

“Nothing a bit of rest will not cure,” Dean insists. He summons a small smile, but Castiel does not look convinced. He draws Dean further back, out of earshot, and leans down, his voice low. 

“Is this about Sam?” he asks gently. “I know you are hiding your distress, Dean. You have been very brave, attending tonight so as not to upset Celeste, but if you need to leave now--”

“It’s not about Sam!” Dean hisses, and Castiel recoils as though he’s been slapped. Dean winces and lowers his voice. “Forgive me. You know I become irritable when I have not slept enough.”

“Like a bear,” Castiel says, and though there’s fond familiarity in his words, his eyes are still tight and concerned. 

“Precisely.”

Castiel sighs, then leans forward and places a soft kiss on Dean’s forehead. “I won’t stay much longer,” he promises. “I expect you to be asleep by the time I return.”

“I will do my best,” Dean says. “Please make my apologies to Celeste and Gilda.” He pauses, then adds, “And to Lord Balthazar.”

“Of course,” Castiel replies. “Goodnight, Dean.”

“Goodnight, my lord.” With one last little smile, Dean turns and leaves the glittering ballroom behind him. He does not turn back to see if Castiel is watching him, or if he has already rejoined Balthazar for another dance. The noise from the celebration falls away as he strides down the familiar corridors of Celeste’s residence. Several of her servants are waiting with carriages at the ready to take any guests in need back to their residences, and he allows himself to be handed up into one, directing the driver to Castiel’s home. 

He brushes aside Alfie’s concerned questions and tells him Lord Castiel will be along later that night. Alfie gives him a suspicious look but offers no further commentary, helping Dean with the buttons on his coat and his predictably ruined cravat. Then he bids him goodnight and leaves Dean alone with a single candle and his dark thoughts for company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter already? Yes! I'm going away for a bit so you get this one a few days early, and then we should be back to regular Friday updates, so the next one will be on the 16th.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean wakes the next morning to an empty place beside him in the bed. Frowning, he tries to remember if he noticed Castiel joining him the night before. He has a faint memory of Castiel’s weight settling onto the mattress, of Castiel’s lips brushing a barely-there kiss across his brow. Or perhaps it was just a dream.

He pulls himself out of bed and wraps his robe around his shoulders, descending the stairs in search of his erstwhile lover. He pauses midway down as the sound of familiar laughter reaches his ears. Castiel is here, it seems, and-- yes, that’s Balthazar’s voice, made recognizable by his accent. 

Dean considers turning around and returning immediately to bed. What is Balthazar doing here so early? It’s an incredibly unfashionable time to pay a call, even on a good friend. Unless Balthazar has been here all night.

As soon as the thought crosses Dean’s mind, he knows it’s the truth. Of course Castiel would invite his friend to stay with him, generous and open-hearted as he is. While part of Dean is childishly upset that he was not consulted about this decision, the more sensible part of him recognizes that Castiel could not have discussed the matter with him, seeing as he left the ball so early. And, after all, this is not Dean’s home. Why should he have any say in who Castiel invites to be a guest here? That is technically his own position.

Dean adjusts his robe and slowly climbs down the last few stairs, following the voices into the dining room. He pulls the belt of his robe tighter around his waist, wondering if he ought to go back and dress before joining Castiel and Balthazar. But before he can decide, Alfie catches sight of him as he hesitates in the hallway and gives him a sunny smile, towing him along as he brings in what appears to be a fresh pot of tea.

Castiel is in the middle of some story when they enter, but he pauses at the sight of Dean, rising to his feet and giving him a soft smile. “Good morning,” he says. He leans forward as though to give Dean a kiss, but Dean pulls back, out of reach. A flicker of surprise passes over Castiel’s features, but he schools his face quickly and pulls out a chair for Dean to slide into.

“How are you feeling this morning?” Balthazar asks from across the table. The concern in his voice seems genuine, but Dean does not know him well enough to be certain. 

But if he is being polite, then Dean ought to do the same. “Somewhat improved,” he replies. “Thank you for asking, my lord.”

“There’s no need to stand on ceremony,” Balthazar says, leaning back in his chair. His coat from the night before is tossed haphazardly over a shirt that Dean is positive belongs to Castiel. He looks completely at ease in it, just as he looks completely at ease in this room, in this house, in Castiel’s life. 

Castiel passes dishes of food towards Dean, but he finds he has little appetite. He tears off small pieces of toast and eats them slowly, sipping his tea and avoiding eye contact. 

His silence hardly seems to matter. Balthazar talks at great length about his recent travels-- to Spain, to Portugal, and various others places that Dean can barely imagine. Castiel, however, is entranced-- he asks rapid questions, his eyes alight with interest as they discuss the sights and scenes of all these far-off places. 

“Have you travelled much?” Balthazar asks, and it takes a moment for Dean to realize he’s the one being addressed. There is nothing snide in Balthazar’s tone, and why would there be? He has no idea of Dean’s history, no idea that he has never even left London.

Before Dean can answer, Castiel cuts in smoothly. “I hope to accompany Dean on some adventures of our own someday soon,” he says, which is not exactly a response, but seems to satisfy Balthazar regardless.

“You must come to Paris,” he insists. “I’d be delighted to have you stay with me. There’s nowhere like it, my young friend,” he says, winking at Dean. “The food! The music! The fashion!”

Dean has little interest in most of these things, save perhaps the food, but he nods politely.   
“Maybe one day.”

“And you, Castiel!” Balthazar exclaims, sticking out his lower lip in an exaggerated manner. “You promised me a visit years ago, and never have you come knocking on my door! I was forced to chase you down myself.”

Castiel laughs, affecting an expression of mock-repentance. “I apologize for the oversight,” he says solemnly. “But in my defense, I never mentioned when that visit would take place.”

“Clever bastard,” Balthazar murmurs fondly. Dean flinches at the softness in his eyes and hastily takes a sip of his tea to cover the look of anguish he’s certain has passed over his features.

“But come!” Balthazar continues. “Enough talk of other places. We are here now, and there is much to see, and many to be seen by.” He looks down at his own attire and winces. “I may require a new outfit, though.”

“Of course,” Castiel replies. He rings the small bell by the side of the table and Alfie appears almost instantaneously. “Please assist Lord Balthazar in finding something more suitable to wear.”

Alfie’s eyes flick over the expanse of Balthazar’s chest left bare by the open neckline of his shirt and a brief look of distaste flickers over his face. “Of course, my lord,” he says, then leads Balthazar from the room.

“It’s a fine day,” Castiel says, nodding towards the window. “I thought we’d begin with a turn through the park. Balthazar will enjoy the chance to greet all the others doing the same.”

Dean cares not at all what Balthazar will enjoy. “A good plan,” he says. “And then what shall you do?”

Castiel frowns. “I had thought you would join us,” he says hesitantly.

An entire day spent witnessing the closeness between Castiel and Balthazar, reminder after reminder that they have years of shared history that Dean can never match? He shudders at the very thought. 

“I’m not sure I feel well enough for such a busy day.” He makes sure to give a little cough in the middle of his declaration, hoping it will be enough to convince Castiel.

But it seems to have the opposite effect. “I thought you were feeling better,” Castiel frowns. 

“Somewhat, yes. But I think I would benefit from a quiet day at home to ensure I do not worsen again.”

He hates lying to Castiel. But Dean doesn’t know how to do anything else. 

Castiel reaches out and takes hold of his hand. “Dean,” he says, then pauses. “Are you certain it’s mere physical illness that’s the matter?”

He should have known he wouldn’t be able to fool Castiel. Those piercing blue eyes have an uncanny way of cutting through his affectations, his denial, his lies. 

But Castiel has a weakness: he trusts Dean, despite all the reasons he should not. 

“I’m fine,” Dean insists. He summons a smile, knowing the grief in his eyes could be explained as tiredness instead. “I will be fine.”

“Still…” Castiel runs his thumb lightly over Dean’s knuckles. “I do not like leaving you alone here when you are feeling poorly. Shall I ask Celeste to pay you a visit?”

“No!” Dean exclaims. Castiel’s eyes widen at the vehemence in his voice, and Dean lowers it. “No, I would hate to have her struck by the same illness. I’ll be alright.”

“I should stay with you,” Castiel murmurs.

It’s precisely what Dean wants to hear. He wants Castiel to stay. He wants to climb back into their bed and let Castiel take him in his arms and forget all about Sam, about Balthazar, about all the things that still haunt Dean in his dreams.

“No,” Dean says again. “No, you must enjoy your time with Lord Balthazar.”

There’s a drawn-out pause, and then Castiel sighs and drops Dean’s hand. “As you wish.”

Dean immediately mourns the loss of contact between them, but he squares his shoulders and inhales deeply. Before he can open his mouth to say anything further, a clatter on the stairs alerts them to Balthazar’s return.

“Better?” he asks, striking a ridiculous pose in the entrance to the room. As much as Dean does not wish to admit it, he does look rather dashing in a soft grey coat that highlights the icy blue of his eyes. “Your lad Alfie here has worked a miracle!”

He reaches out and ruffles Alfie’s hair, and Alfie flushes slightly but grins proudly. It seems even he has succumbed to their visitor’s charms. Dean thinks again how much easier this would all be if he could simply hate Balthazar, but he doesn’t.

“Ready when you are, my friends,” Balthazar says. “Dean, I think you may require Alfie’s assistance as well.”

“Not today,” Dean replies. “I’m afraid I’m not feeling well enough to accompany you.”

Balthazar’s cheerful expression is immediately replaced by a look of concern. “How dreadful,” he comments. “Shall we stay here and regale you with tales from our wild youth instead? Guaranteed to cure any illness, or so I’ve been told.”

“No, no,” Dean protests. “I’ve already had this discussion with Castiel. I will likely return to bed, and the two of you ought to enjoy your day.”

Balthazar turns to Castiel, who keeps his gaze on Dean as he nods. “Very well,” Balthazar says with a sigh. “We’ll bring you some flowers for your bedside, then, hmn?”

It’s a sweet thought. Dean smiles in spite of himself. “I would like that.”

“Come along then, Cas,” Balthazar says. “We have a mission.”

Castiel leans over and places the softest of kisses on Dean’s forehead. “We’ll talk later,” he murmurs. “Rest well.”

Dean lifts a hand in farewell as they leave the room. Faintly, he can hear Balthazar saying, “It’s almost as though he doesn’t like me,” but he cannot hear Castiel’s reply.

He stays at the table, unmoving, for a long time. Eventually, Alfie returns and frowns at him. “What are you still doing here? You ought to be in bed.”

Most lords and ladies would take great offense at being addressed in such a tone, particularly by a servant. But then, Dean is no true lord. He shrugs moodily and continues to stare into the tea leaves that have fallen to the bottom of his cup as though they hold all the answers to his problems.

He flinches back when he feels a touch on his shoulder, and Alfie withdraws his hand immediately. “Apologies,” he says stiffly, his hurt clear on his face.

“No, Alfie, I didn’t--” Dean’s words are shaky, and he can feel the tears beginning to rise behind his eyes. He closes them tightly and takes a deep breath, willing himself to remain composed. “You’re right. I ought to return to bed.”

Alfie looks at him warily, but nods slowly. “Allow me to assist you,” he says.

Dean gives him his arm, and they carefully make their way up the stairs. Dean removes his robe and tosses it over the chair while Alfie draws the blinds. He clucks at the discarded robe and hangs it properly, giving Dean a stern look as he does. “Get some rest,” he instructs. “You’ll feel better once you’ve slept.”

“Thank you,” Dean calls out as Alfie leaves the room. Alfie pauses and turns back to him, giving a little bow. “Of course, my lord.”

Dean does not deserve such kindness, but he is grateful for it regardless. He settles back in bed and closes his eyes as he pulls the heavy covers over himself. If he arranges them just so, it’s almost as though there’s a pair of strong arms holding him tightly, keeping him safe and warm.

***

He’s surprised he manages to sleep at all, but his slumber is restless. He cannot remember what he dreamt of, but he wakes to find himself in a cold sweat, almost as though he is truly ill. Pulling himself upright, he reaches for the pitcher of water beside the bed and knocks it to the ground instead.

Swearing under his breath, he bends to pick it up, but a gentle hand stops him and takes it from his grasp. “Allow me,” Alfie says quietly. He must have heard the clatter. 

Alfie sets the pitcher back on the table and pours a glass of water for Dean, who takes it with a grateful murmur. He drains the glass in one swallow and Alfie refills it without a word.

His patience only increases Dean’s feelings of guilt. “You need not stay,” he says, looking away. “I’ll be fine on my own.”

“No, you won’t,” Alfie declares. He hesitates, then drops into the nearest chair, giving Dean a stern look. “You’re hurting yourself, my lord, and I take no pleasure in witnessing it, but I must, if only in order to slow the process.”

“That’s not your responsibility,” Dean protests.

Alfie draws himself up and crosses his arms over his chest. “Yes, it is,” he argues. “Your health and well-being are indeed my responsibility.”

“You’re no doctor,” Dean says petulantly. 

“Perhaps not,” Alfie agrees calmly. “But even I can see that you are not ill, merely sick at heart.”

It’s said with such compassion that Dean finally wilts. He sighs and turns to look at his friend, ashamed. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I’ve been quite awful to you.”

“Not at all,” Alfie assures him. “Only slightly awful.”

Dean smiles. “Thank you,” he continues. “And you’re right.”

“Why do you not simply talk to him?” Alfie asks. “The two of you spend so much time looking at each other when you think the other isn’t watching, and all I see on your faces is love and concern.”

It shouldn’t surprise Dean that Alfie is so observant, but it does. “I thought I hid it better,” he mumbles. 

“Not from me,” Alfie says gently. “I remember when you first arrived at Zachariah’s, so uncertain, but so careful, watching everything and taking note of the way everyone else acted, then mimicking it perfectly. You need not act any longer, Dean, haven’t you realized that by now?”

“It’s not that simple,” Dean says. 

Alfie shakes his head and rises to his feet. “I think you’ll find it is. Can I get you anything else?”

“No, thank you. You’ve already given me much to think about.”

“Talk to him,” Alfie advises as he leaves the room. “This silence will only fester if you let it go on any longer.”

If only Castiel were here, Dean could take Alfie’s advice before losing his nerve. But it is clear that Castiel and Balthazar are still out on their tour of the city, and Dean has no idea when to expect them back. And yes, he does expect Balthazar to return with Castiel, which makes the task of simply talking to his lover even more difficult to accomplish.

His stomach rumbles at him, reminding Dean that he hasn’t eaten much over the past few days. He wanders downstairs and into the kitchen, where Benny takes one look at him and then gently pushes him into a chair and begins laying food out in front of him. Dean murmurs his thanks and eats methodically, ignoring the concerned glances Benny throws over his shoulder at him. He wonders how much the cook knows about the trouble he and Castiel have been having-- it’s obvious to Alfie, he now knows, but Alfie does spend much more time in close proximity to the two of them. Do all the servants feel the tension in the household, or is he a special case?

When Benny sets a large slice of apple tart in front of him, still warm from the oven, he lingers for a moment, clearly hesitating over what to say. “Thank you,” Dean says, not meeting his eyes.

“Of course, my lord,” Benny replies automatically. “You know-- we’re all glad to have you here. It’s good to see His Lordship smile so often.”

Dean laughs, only slightly bitterly. “Yes,” he agrees

“But we wish to see you smile as well,” Benny continues. “And I know there’s little I can do, but I have observed that you have a keen fondness for my apple tart.”

There’s a lump in Dean’s throat, and he swallows roughly around it. “I do indeed,” he replies. He lifts his fork to his mouth, and at the first taste of apples and cinnamon, he feels his face relax into what may not be a smile, but is an expression of happiness regardless.

Benny’s eyes light up in satisfaction at the sight, and he returns to his work, humming under his breath as Dean finishes his meal. With a wave goodbye and a murmured thank-you, Dean leaves the kitchen, heading back up the stairs towards the library.

It ought to be a tranquil place, a retreat from the rest of the world and from his troubles, but as Dean selects the book he’s been working through and takes it over to the divan, something catches his eyes, something that does not belong there: a piece of fabric draped casually over the small walnut end table. Frowning, Dean picks it up, wondering why it looks so familiar, and then drops it with a start as he realizes what it is. Balthazar’s cravat from the night before, clearly removed and hastily tossed aside here, another marker of his ease in this house.

Dean closes his eyes, fighting to keep his breathing steady. He picks the cravat back up and drops heavily onto the divan, running his fingers over it in a repetitive movement. The silk is of the highest quality, and it must have cost a sizeable amount, and yet Balthazar seems to have no concern as to where it has gone. Whether that is because the money means nothing to him, or because he knows he’ll be spending a great deal of time in this house, Dean cannot be sure, though he suspects it may be a combination of the two. 

He doesn’t know how much time passes, but eventually he hears the sound of Castiel’s footsteps on the stairs, and then the creak of doors opening down the hall as he searches for Dean. Dean does not move, does not open his eyes. He simply waits.

“There you are.” Castiel’s voice is warm, perhaps even slightly teasing. “I thought to find you still abed.”

“No,” is all Dean says in reply.

He feels Castiel take a few more steps towards him, then pause. “Are you feeling better?” More tentative, now.

“Somewhat.” Dean finally cracks open his eyes and looks at Castiel. His hair is mussed from the wind and there’s a tiny, dark red stain on the cuff of one sleeve-- wine, if Dean had to guess. But mostly, Dean realizes, he looks happy.

He closes his eyes again and pushes down the pain that follows this realization. “Where is Lord Balthazar?”

“Bal--” Castiel begins, then stops. “He’s gone to visit other friends. I’m not his only acquaintance in London, far from it.”

“Yes, but you are his _dearest_ friend, are you not?” The words slip out before Dean can stop them, and he looks up in time to see Castiel visibly flinch at the venom in them.

“Dean,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest, “are you....jealous?”

Dean shrugs and holds up the abandoned cravat. “Ought I be?”

Castiel stares at it for a moment, then looks back into Dean’s face. “Of course not,” he says, drawing himself up indignantly. “Dean. Exactly what sort of sordid situation are you imagining here? That I brought Balthazar home with me last night and ravished him here in the library while you slept down the hall?”

It is an absurd image, Dean admits. “No,” he mutters under his breath. “No, I do not believe you would do such a thing.”

“Then what is it?” Castiel demands. Dean says nothing. But he does not have to. Castiel is a clever man, and he arrives at an answer after only a moment’s thought. “You’re jealous because we were lovers once, years ago?”

Dean does not answer. Easier for Castiel to believe this than for Dean to admit to the real issue at stake.

There’s a new coldness in Castiel’s voice as he continues, one that does not match the hurt in his eyes. “I’ve never judged you for the people you’ve been with before me, Dean, and I’d hoped you would extend me the same courtesy.”

“I know all too well that a fuck doesn’t have to mean anything, my lord, I’m not judging you for that,” Dean snaps, and Castiel goes deathly pale.

“I don’t understand,” he whispers. “Dean, please. I don’t understand. I know you’ve had a difficult time lately, with what we’ve discovered about Sam, but you said you were fine, you said--”

“I lied,” Dean cuts in. It feels good to admit it, to finally give voice to the frustration and rage that have been building inside him the past few days. “And you should have known I was lying.”

“I suspected,” Castiel replies tightly. “But--”

“But you went off with Balthazar anyway,” Dean says wearily. 

“You told me to go!” Castiel exclaims. “Am I meant to be a mind-reader now? To know that when you say one thing, you mean the exact opposite?”

“Perhaps.” 

“That’s unfair,” Castiel says softly. “Dean, I never wish to impose my will on you. To make you feel as though you owe me something, anything. So when you tell me you’re fine, when you tell me to leave you alone in your misery, I will go, because I respect your wishes, your agency, even when I suspect you might be lying. Can’t you understand that?”

“I can,” Dean admits. “But Castiel, you shouldn’t have to.”

He tosses the cravat at Castiel, who catches it instinctively. “When you walked in the door just now, all I could think was how happy you looked. How peaceful. And I-- I’ve brought you so much trouble. Things would be so much easier for you, if it were Lord Balthazar who shared this house with you. Who shared his life with you.”

“I don’t want Balthazar, you noble, self-sacrificing fool!” Castiel shouts. He gestures wildly as he speaks, knocking the ornate lamp off the end table. It shatters into pieces, the sharp sound ringing through the room as they stare at one another, cheeks flushed and eyes glittering wildly. “I only want you.”

“For now,” Dean says flatly.

Castiel frowns at him. “What do you mean by that?”

“You’ll tire of me,” Dean says with a sigh. “I suppose it’s fun for you, now. I’m new and different and I don’t belong to the world you’ve never truly felt a part of. But you are a part of it, my lord, whether you wish to be or not. And you cannot ignore that forever. You need someone by your side to help you navigate that world, not someone who requires more aid than you yourself do.”

“Dean, that’s ridiculous, I--”

“He knows this world, and he knows you. Better than I ever could. You know my history, every sordid detail of it, and I still know so little about you.”

“Only because you never ask!” Castiel shouts. 

Dean starts to form a reply, but stops short when he realizes Castiel is correct. He has never asked him for details of his past. Perhaps because he was afraid he would be threatened by them, just as he is threatened by Balthazar now. Rationally, he’s always been aware that Castiel must have had other lovers before him, but he’s never asked.

Because he’s selfish. Castiel has been so good to him. And what has Dean done for him in return but take up his time with a wild goose chase for a brother who is in all likelihood long dead?

“We were foolish to think this could ever last,” he says. “I was foolish,” he corrects himself. “I’m no good for you, my lord. I’m no good for anyone.”

“That is not your decision to make,” Castiel says. Cautiously, he drops to the ground in front of Dean, reaching out for him, but Dean draws back. If Castiel touches him, he is afraid he will shatter. Afraid he will lose his nerve, fall back under the spell of those soft touches and those pleading blue eyes.

“Don’t,” he says.

Castiel immediately withdraws. “Please…” he swallows roughly, anguish written on every line of his face. “Dean, please do not do anything rash.”

He wants to. Just as he did the night before, he wants to flee, to leave this life of illusion behind him, to disappear back into the alleys of London where he belongs. But he cannot bear the look on Castiel’s face, the way his fists are clenched tightly at his sides as though bracing for the impact of whatever Dean will decide. 

Dean rises to his feet, and Castiel looks up at him, a flicker of hope dawning in his eyes. “Goodnight, my lord,” he says stiffly, as formal as he was the very first time they met. 

He watches as that spark of hope is extinguished, as Castiel’s eyes go dim and his mouth forms a thin line, lips pressed tightly together. He stands as well, and offers Dean a low bow. “Goodnight, Dean,” he murmurs. 

Turning away so that Castiel will not see the tears that threaten to spill down his cheeks, Dean leaves the library with his head held high. He does not make for their bedchamber, but instead pushes open the door to the room he used when he stayed with Castiel that first night, months ago. 

Despite the thickness of the doors between them, he hears the sound of another lamp crashing from down the hall, and Dean pulls the covers over his head, praying they will block out the sound of Castiel’s heartbreak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #sorrynotsorry


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Dean having a bad dream related to his past.

_Rough hands sliding over his bare skin. Hot, gin-soaked breath on his cheeks. An ominous chuckle in a dark, low voice. Dean can’t see, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but remain as still as possible and hope that it will all be over soon._

_Castiel’s face, the misery in his eyes as he bade Dean goodnight._

Dean wakes with a start, heart thumping wildly in his chest. The same old dream, the one he hasn’t had in months, except for that last image of Castiel’s face, the echo of his voice calling Dean’s name. That is new. 

Pressing a hand to his forehead and feeling it clammy with sweat, Dean tosses back the covers and sits up. It is surely no coincidence that the nightmares returned tonight, the first night he and Castiel have slept apart in months. He takes a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves, and wonders if he’ll be able to fall asleep once more.

But every time his eyes drift closed, all he sees is a pair of mournful blue eyes.

After several attempts, Dean huffs and swings himself out of the bed. He throws a robe over his shoulders and strides across the room, throwing open the door.

Castiel stands on the other side.

Dean stops short, all his earlier decisiveness leaving him in a rush. He opens his mouth, but no words emerge. 

Castiel seems to be suffering the same predicament. His eyes travel over Dean’s face, the surely disastrous state of his hair, and his lips move as though to form words, but the silence between them only grows.

“You cried out,” he says eventually. 

“A bad dream,” Dean says briefly. 

Castiel nods. “And you are going--”

Dean does not know the answer to that question. When he climbed out of bed, all he knew was that he needed to flee. Whether to the kitchen for a change of scenery, out of the house entirely, or right into Castiel’s arms, he cannot say. 

“You came to check on me,” he says instead. After everything that passed between them earlier this night, this gesture surprises Dean. But Castiel has an endless capacity for kindness that never fails to amaze him. 

“I didn’t know if you would want me here,” Castiel says quietly, not meeting his eyes. 

Dean looks at him, the strong lines of his face made stark in the flickering candlelight. His shoulders are tense, his hands clenched at his sides. Even in the dim light, Dean can see a large cut running down the side of Castiel’s right hand. 

“Your hand. What happened?”

Castiel brings it up in front of him, grimacing as he looks at the wound. “A small disagreement with a lamp,” he explains.

Something tightens in Dean’s chest, and then loosens. He reaches out, ever so slowly, hearing the hitch in Castiel’s breath as he curls his fingers around his wrist and raises Castiel’s hand to his face.

“I’m sorry,” Dean murmurs, pressing the barest of kisses to the cut. “I’m sorry.”

A shaky exhale, and then Castiel gathers him in his arms, and Dean goes gladly, burying his face in the crook of Castiel’s shoulder and breathing in the familiar smell of him. One of Castiel’s hands settles in his hair, running lightly through it, and they stand like this for several long moments, neither saying a word.

“Come to bed,” Castiel murmurs eventually. “We can talk now, or in the morning, but please, Dean, I cannot bear to be apart from you.”

Not trusting himself to speak, Dean nods, and lets Castiel lead him back to their chamber. The bed is undisturbed, and Dean flinches from the sight. He has hurt Castiel badly this night, and he will never forgive himself for it.

“You did not sleep,” he states. 

“How could I?” Castiel responds with a small shrug. “I’d been pacing the room for hours, it seemed, wondering how it all went so wrong, and then I heard you cry out, and there was no time to think, no time to decide. I was in front of your door before I even realized I had moved.”

Turning away, Dean removes his robe and hangs it in its usual place. He pulls back the covers on the bed, and slides in on his usual side, looking up at Castiel, who has remained standing at the other side of the room, watching him warily.

Dean extends his hand in invitation, and Castiel finally smiles, the tension easing from his shoulders as he crosses the room and joins Dean in bed. 

They settle in comfortably beside one another, Castiel with an arm around Dean’s shoulders and Dean with his head pillowed on Castiel’s chest. Strangely, Dean no longer feels tired. He traces gentle patterns on the fabric of Castiel’s nightshirt and wonders where to begin with an apology that feels too daunting to voice out loud.

The truth seems as good a place as any. “You were right,” he says.

“About what?” He can feel the rumble of Castiel’s chest as he speaks, but his tone is gentle. Encouraging.

“Everything,” Dean replies. “But particularly about the reason for my ill mood of late.”

Castiel is silent for a moment, and then his grip on Dean tightens. “Sam.”

“Sam,” Dean repeats. “It all comes back to him, in the end.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Castiel asks. “I’ve been with you every step of this journey, Dean. I may not feel your brother’s absence as keenly as you, but your distress is mine.”

“I did not wish to burden you,” Dean admits. 

“And yet, in doing so, you burdened me in another way.”

There’s no rebuke in Castiel’s words, but Dean flinches from them. He should have seen how his withdrawal was hurting Castiel, how his denial of his own feelings affected him. “You’re right,” he says quietly. “I am unaccustomed to being anything other than alone. Unaccustomed to having someone to share my struggles. But that is no excuse.”

“And then I went and left you alone while I gallivanted about town with Lord Balthazar,” Castiel says, shaking his head. 

“Only because I told you to,” Dean reminds him. “And that was unfair of me. I should not have expected you to see through my denial.”

“And I should not have left you, knowing you were in pain. Especially not with someone I have a past with.”

“Do not berate yourself for that,” Dean tells him quickly. “You and Lord Balthazar-- you were right, it’s none of my business. I was jealous, at first. But that passed quickly. I know you were merely excited to spend time with someone you care for.”

“He quite likes you, you know,” Castiel says, and Dean can hear the smile in his voice. “Balthazar.”

Dean squirms slightly, guilty. “And I’ve been so awful to him,” he murmurs. 

“He’ll forgive you,” Castiel says. “He’s not one to hold grudges.”

It doesn’t hurt Dean anymore, hearing Castiel speak of his former lover. He takes a deep breath. “Will you tell me more about him?” he asks. “Not now. But someday. I’d like to hear how you met. How you--” he trails off, feeling himself flush.

Castiel presses a kiss to the top of his head. “If you wish to hear it, I will tell it gladly.”

“Someday,” Dean says, settling back in against Castiel’s chest. 

“Yes,” Castiel agrees. “But what do we do now?”

Dean wishes there was an easy answer. “I do not know,” he replies. “But whatever it is, I want to do it together.”

“Together,” Castiel echoes softly. “Yes.”

***

They sleep late the next morning, exhausted both physically and emotionally, and the first thing Dean does when he wakes is look down on Castiel’s sleeping face and trace it lightly with one finger, wondering how he could ever have thought to leave him. He will not doubt again.

Castiel wakes and blinks up at him, eyes still soft from sleep. “Hello, Dean,” he says, and if he plans to say anything further, Dean doesn’t give him the chance, pressing their lips together and cutting off his words. Castiel sighs into the kiss and his arms come up around Dean in a warm embrace. 

It’s only the rumbling of Dean’s stomach that forces them apart, both chuckling, and with one last kiss to Dean’s cheek, Castiel swings out of bed, pulling Dean with him. “Let’s get you fed,” he says. 

They descend the stairs together, stopping on every other step to kiss. Dean can’t seem to stop touching him, like he’s all too aware now how precious their bond truly is. They finally enter the dining room to find Alfie waiting to serve their breakfast, a knowing smirk on his face as he gives them a brief bow.

“Good morning, my lords,” he says. 

“Good morning, Alfie,” Castiel replies, Dean following a second later. “Thank you, this looks wonderful.”

As he moves around them, pouring tea into their waiting cups, Alfie gives Dean a little wink. Dean feels himself flush and Castiel laughs softly, noticing their interaction.

“It’s not my place, I know,” Alfie says, “but I’m happy to see you both looking so well.”

Dean reaches out and squeezes his friend’s shoulder lightly. “Thank you,” he says.

With another small smile, Alfie leaves them to their meal. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Castiel says, sipping his tea, “we ought to leave the city.”

Dean nearly drops his toast in surprise. “Leave London?”

“Not permanently,” Castiel corrects hastily. “But...these past few weeks have been difficult. A change of scenery might do us both some good.”

It’s an intriguing idea. Dean has never had the chance to experience a change of scenery, other than coming to live with Zachariah and then Castiel. “Did you have somewhere in mind?”

“I have an estate in the country. Nothing too lavish, compared to many others, but it’s quiet and comfortable and the fresh air is always good for the soul.” He looks almost hesitant, proposing the idea. 

Dean reaches out and takes hold of his hand. “It sounds wonderful.”

“You really think so?”

“Yes,” Dean says firmly. “Some peace and quiet. Some time for just the two of us. No balls, no old lovers showing up unannounced, no gossip…”

“Oh, there’s still gossip,” Castiel laughs. “The nearby village will be all in an uproar about the handsome young man seen riding with the local nobleman.”

“I think I can bear it,” Dean replies with a grin of his own. “To have that time with you.”

“Good.” Castiel nods decisively. “I’ll have word sent to my steward. We can leave tomorrow. It will necessitate my being out of the house today, putting some affairs in order...”

“It will be worth it,” Dean assures him. “Go.”

Castiel looks at him for a moment, and Dean knows he’s attempting to gauge his sincerity. Rolling his eyes, he pulls him closer and kisses him again, tasting the sweetness of strawberry jam on his lips. “Ridiculous man,” he mutters. “I mean it. I won’t lie to you again.”

“I’ll be home as soon as I can,” Castiel promises, leaning in to steal another kiss. 

Dean pushes him away with a smile. “I know you will.”

***

London dwindles behind them as the carriage rolls smoothly out of the city. Dean is enthralled by the way the entire world seems to widen, the way the sky seems so large. He half-hangs out of the carriage, ignoring Castiel’s warning, watching as the houses and churches give way to rolling hills and smooth fields.

He’s never seen anything quite like this. 

“It’s so big,” he marvels. “And to think, we’ve barely left the city. The air is already so much fresher.”

Castiel moves closer and leans to look with him as they continue to roll towards to their destination. “Yes,” he agrees. “Just wait until we arrive. It’s striking how different it is from London.”

“Why have you never mentioned this estate before?” Dean wonders, pulling his gaze away from the window and settling back in his seat.

Castiel smiles softly, a distant look in his eyes. “We spent a great deal of time there when we were young,” he says. “But after my father and brother died and I inherited the title...well, London became my primary residence. My position requires my presence there most of the time. And Cain is an excellent steward, so I need not fear for the house’s upkeep.”

“It seems a foolish system, that you inherit land and houses and then too many duties to properly make use of them” Dean comments, startling Castiel into laughter.

“Yes, I suppose it is rather foolish,” he concedes. “But I am glad of it regardless, as it provides us with this opportunity for escape.”

“True.” Dean looks back out the window as another carriage passes them, travelling in the opposite direction. A shadowy figure lifts a hand in greeting, and Dean returns the gesture, though he has no idea who the occupant is. 

“See? You’re learning,” Castiel teases, his own arm lifted in a wave. 

And perhaps he is. They may never be intuitive, these social niceties that come so easily to Castiel and Celeste and Gilda and all the other lords and ladies of his acquaintance, but Dean is growing more and more comfortable in his role as a young man of good standing. Perhaps someday he will indeed feel at ease in this world.

They pass the rest of the trip mostly in companionable quiet, though Castiel will occasionally point out places of interest along their route. Shortly after midday, they turn off the main road and down a long, tree-lined avenue. Dean once again peers out the window, waiting to catch sight of their home for the next week. 

It soon comes into sight, the warm brick glowing in the bright sunlight. A large pond spreads before the long, low building, and the trees lead up the manicured lawn and into a rambling garden off to the side of the house.

Dean loves it immediately. He turns to Castiel, who is watching him with a look of apprehension on his face, and smiles broadly. “It’s wonderful,” he declares.

An answering smile spreads across Castiel’s face. “I’m glad to hear it.”

They soon come to a halt in the circular drive, and Dean eagerly leaps down from the carriage. A tall man with long greying hair stands at attention at the top of the stairs, then comes to meet them when he catches sight of Castiel emerging from the carriage. 

“My lord Castiel,” he says with a bow. “I am pleased to see that you have arrived safely.”

“Cain,” Castiel says warmly, clasping him by the shoulder. “It’s good to see you. May I introduce my companion, Mr. Dean Winchester?”

Cain offers him a polite bow. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir.”

“Thank you,” Dean replies. “Lord Castiel has spoken very highly of you.”

A pleased twinkle shines in Cain’s eyes as he gestures them inside. “Come,” he says. “I’ll take care of the luggage. You must be tired from your journey.”

“Are you?” Castiel asks as he leads Dean inside the house. “Tired?”

“Not at all.” Dean looks around with interest, noting the airiness of the rooms, the soft, fresh palette of the decor. Yes, he likes this house very much. “There’s far too much excitement for me to feel tired.”

“Excellent answer.” Castiel leads him up the stairs towards an open door at the end of the hall. The chamber is painted a soft shade of cream, the bed made up in fresh greens and blues. It looks restful and and inviting, but Dean’ gaze is drawn to the wide window that looks out onto the pond, a padded bench in front of it making it the perfect place to sit with a book.

“This is the lord’s chamber, but if you’d prefer somewhere else, there are several other rooms--”

Dean turns to Castiel and cuts him off with a kiss. “It’s perfect,” he declares. “I think we’re going to be very happy here.”

And they are. They pass the first day exploring the gardens, with Castiel pointing out all the various flowers his father had planted for his mother long ago. Then Cain gives them a tour of his beehives, not bothering to hide his amused grin when Dean smears honey all over Castiel’s face and Castiel catches his hand in his own to lick away the last traces. As the day draws to a close, they take the rowboat out on the pond, Dean lazily watching as Castiel works the oars, the muscles in his back and shoulders shifting with every movement. And later that night, as Castiel is braced above him, thrusting smoothly into his body, Dean traces over those same muscles and marvels at his good fortune, to be here with him like this.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a slightly shorter chapter because I split the original one into two, but I hope you still enjoy it!

On their second day in the country, Castiel suggests a ride around the surrounding area. “It’s quite beautiful,” he says. “I think you’ll enjoy it.”

Dean, lounging in the window seat in nothing but his robe, shifts so that it falls open and watches in amusement as Castiel’s eyes are immediately drawn to his newly-bared skin. “Would that not require me to get dressed?” he pouts.

“Sadly, yes,” Castiel murmurs. “But the weather is fine this morning, and it may not last the week. We’ll have plenty of time to lay abed without getting dressed when the rain inevitably arrives.”

Dean sighs, but is in fact quite looking forward to exploring the area further. It doesn’t stop him from dropping his robe to the ground before he even selects his garments for the day, looking back over his shoulder to see Castiel’s eyes go wide and his mouth drop open. 

“You make a compelling argument,” he says weakly, hand twitching against his side as though he means to reach out, to touch. 

Dean clicks his tongue at him. “Not now, my lord,” he says, batting his hand away. “We’re going riding.”

Castiel swears under his breath, and Dean just laughs and continues dressing.

The stable is small but well-maintained, and Castiel immediately makes his way towards a chestnut gelding with a white star on his forehead. The horse whinnies softly and butts its head against Castiel’s chest as he strokes its neck. “This is Earl,” Castiel says softly. “His sire was my father’s horse. His name was Duke.”

Dean is too entranced by the sight of Castiel and the horse together for his words to register immediately. “What, even your horses inherit titles from their fathers?”

Castiel laughs, and Earl blows air through his nostrils in what almost sounds like a laugh of his own. “Yes,” Castiel says. “One of the first words I learned to say was ‘duke.’ A product of my father and his friends always discussing the latest scandals within earshot, I suppose. So when Father came home with a new horse, and brought me out to the stable to see him, it was the first thing I said. And the name stuck. Eventually, along came Earl.”

Dean approaches with caution, and Earl watches him warily. He has not spent a great deal of time around horses other than those that pull the carriage, but he is not afraid, only awed. Earl presses his nose delicately against Dean’s outstretched palm, sneezes, and turns his head away.

“We’ll find someone more welcoming for you,” Castiel declares, lips twitching in a grin. “Ah, Marchioness ought to do.”

He points to a stall at the end of the row, where a silvery-gray horse regards them with interest. She looks calm and steady, perfect for a beginner like him. “Hello, Marchioness,” Dean says as he extends a hand towards her. “Shall we be friends?”

She huffs gently against his skin and leans into his touch as he reaches up to run his hands through her mane. Dean looks over his shoulder to find Castiel watching them with a fond smile on his face. “I think she’ll do just fine.”

They set a leisurely pace along the trails that wind through the countryside, accommodating Dean’s inexperience on horseback. Marchioness is unbothered by her rider’s lack of practice, content to pace calmly behind Earl. 

“This land all belongs to you?” Dean asks after nearly an hour. It feels as though the fields stretch out without end. They’ve seen no sign of any other riders, passed no towns or residences. It’s almost as though they’re all alone in this wide world.

“We’re approaching one of the borders now, but yes,” Castiel responds. “See that creek there?”

Dean looks in the direction he’s pointing and sees a flash of sunlight glancing off running water. “Yes?”

“That marks the boundary of my property.”

“Does this mean we must turn back?” Dean finds himself strangely disappointed at the prospect.

Castiel must hear it in his tone, because he turns to smile at him. “Not at all,” he assures him. “We’ll follow the stream and eventually we will end up not far from the house as it loops around.”

“You still remember all this, even after your many years away?”

“Of course,” Castiel says softly. “You never really forget the things from your childhood. Not the ones that truly matter.”

Dean nods, a sharp sadness passing through him at the thought of his lost brother. But he inhales deeply, reminding himself to remain in the present moment, and it soon passes.

After another half an hour, Castiel veers sharply off the path. Startled, Dean pulls too hard on the reins and Marchioness tosses her head, snorting. He pats her neck softly and croons sweet words to her, and she soon settles, following after Earl. 

“Where are we going?” Dean asks. 

“You’ll see,” is Castiel’s cryptic reply.

They emerge into another vast field, the grass swaying lightly in the breeze. All around him, all Dean can see is green, and when he looks up, the blue sky feels like a dome above their heads, a bubble that keeps the rest of the world at bay. 

“I used to come here to get away from my lessons,” Castiel says, swinging down from his horse and settling back onto the grass. He pats the ground beside him and Dean dismounts, far less gracefully, giving Marchioness a fond pat on the nose for her patience. 

“There are other fields just like it all around, but this one was mine,” Castiel continues. 

“Thank you for sharing it with me,” Dean says, humbled. He stretches out on the ground, staring up at the clouds in the sky, imagining a younger version of Castiel doing the same thing. “Was your father angry at you for skipping your lessons?”

“No,” Castiel replies, laughing. “He was quite amused by it, I think. I was the youngest, I had the fewest responsibilities...I had a great deal of freedom in that regard.”

“Until…” Dean trails off.

“Until I didn’t,” Castiel concludes. “I haven’t been back here since my father and Lucien died.”

“It must have been lonely,” Dean offers, thinking of the aching emptiness he’d felt after his own father’s death. But this is not about him.

“Yes,” Castiel says. “But then there was so much to be done, so much to attend to. I didn’t realize how lonely I was for a long, long time. And there were always other people about-- I never felt alone, so I did not think I could possibly be lonely. But most of them were superficial acquaintances at most, or worse, those seeking to take advantage of my newly inherited title and wealth to form their own connections.”

Dean chews at his lip, wondering if this is the right time to ask. “Was Balthazar such a one?”

Castiel throws him a surprised look. “No,” he says. “No, it was around that time that we first met, but I never feared Balthazar only cared for my title.”

“I think I’d like to hear that story. If you’re willing.” In the light of day, with Castiel’s hand resting gently on his stomach as they lie beside one another, in this place he has shared only with Dean, Dean knows he cannot be threatened by the shadow of a past lover.

“Very well.” Castiel lets loose a long breath before continuing. “I was eighteen years old, and already considered an eligible bachelor. But I had little interest in most of the others I encountered at various social events. And then one night, Balthazar showed up, freshly arrived from Paris. I dismissed him at first-- another rake, thinking himself far more charming than he truly was.”

Dean laughs at the similarity between their first impressions of Balthazar. “Go on.”

“But when he asked me for a dance, I accepted, and I found him genuinely amusing, interested in what I had to say in a way most others were not. He enjoyed history and music and talking of far-off places, and…” Castiel lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “We snuck away onto the balcony and kissed for the first time. It didn’t last long-- we were rather rudely interrupted by another couple seeking privacy of their own.”

“Rude indeed,” Dean laughs. “Did you--” He wants to know, but he still finds it difficult to put it in words.

“Not that night. But not long afterwards.”

“Was he your first lover?” It doesn’t matter, not really, but Dean is curious, and now that the topic has been broached, he wants to know _everything_.

Castiel turns to look at him, eyes searching Dean’s face. “You’re sure you wish to hear this?”

“Yes.” Dean tucks himself more closely along his side. “It does not upset me. Not anymore.”

Castiel nods slowly, then continues. “Not my first lover, no. That was a young woman named Meg.”

“What happened to her?” Dean asks.

“She married someone of higher standing,” Castiel answers. “It was difficult at the time, but only served to strengthen my reluctance to form connections to others. I did not trust that they wanted me for anything more than my title.”

“But not with Balthazar.”

“No. He never cared about any of that.”

“And you never spoke of marriage? Of courtship?” Dean finds that difficult to believe. Among the nobility, the match is all that matters.

“Oh, we did,” Castiel says. “And we decided it was not for us. Balthazar remains a bachelor for a reason-- he has little interest in settling down. I suppose he will, someday, but he’ll delay it as long as possible. We were never under any illusions about what our relationship was.”

Dean frowns, knowing Castiel can’t see his expression. He’s not entirely sure he understands.

“Is it so difficult to imagine?” Castiel asks, correctly interpreting his silence. “That one can have someone whose company they enjoy, who they can find pleasure with, and yet not wish to spend their life with them?”

Dean shrugs. Hearing Castiel speak of Balthazar that way, he wonders what difference there is between their relationship and the one he currently shares with Castiel. He knows he enjoys Dean’s company, knows they can find pleasure together, but--

He hears Castiel’s sigh, and then Castiel rolls over so that he can look down into Dean’s face. “I can hear you doubting yourself,” he says softly. “Dean. I cared for Balthazar. I still do. But I never loved him.” He pauses, swallowing nervously. “Not the way I love you.”

The words seem to hang in the air around them. Dean blinks up at him, wondering if he has strayed into a dream. He reaches up and places a hand against Castiel’s face. “You--”

“Yes,” Castiel breathes. “I care not if you cannot say it in return, if it’s too soon. Dean, you simply had to know--”

The rest of his words disappear as Dean presses their lips together, unable to convey the depth of his feeling in any other way. Castiel laughs, breathless, and braces himself above Dean, deepening the kiss.

Castiel loves him. What a strange, wonderful, miraculous thing. A thing Dean never dared to dream. He would hardly believe it, if not for the way Castiel keeps saying it, over and over again, breaking their kiss to murmur it against his neck before kissing him once more, the same cycle repeating in what feels like an endless loop. 

Distantly, Dean becomes aware that it’s not only his mental state that is being affected by Castiel’s declaration. He is hard in his trousers, and as he shifts slightly under Castiel’s weight, he feels the press of an answering erection against his thigh. 

Emboldened, Dean slides his hands down Castiel’s back and grabs hold of that glorious backside. Castiel groans against the side of his face, grinding down against Dean in a movement that leaves them both gasping.

Just as Dean is considering slipping his hands between their bodies to unfasten their breeches, he feels the first raindrop splash against his cheek. 

Castiel must not notice, as he continues to rock against Dean, who briefly entertains the idea of remaining out here in spite of the rain. But the hard ground is beginning to cause an ache in his lower back, and he would much prefer to have a proper bed as the location for all the things he wishes do with Castiel.

“Castiel,” he murmurs, gently pushing him away. “It’s raining.”

“It will stop soon enough,” Castiel grumbles in reply, pressing a kiss directly beneath Dean’s ear with unerring accuracy. Dean bites back a moan and pushes him with slightly more force. 

“We can’t be far from the house now,” he says.

With a sigh, Castiel rolls off him. “We’re not,” he admits. “If you promise we can resume this precisely where we’ve left off--”

“I promise,” Dean says.

They’re back at the house within twenty minutes, Dean braving a faster pace on Marchioness in his urgency. They’re soaked through from the rain by the time they arrive, shedding their wet jackets in the entryway before Castiel playfully chases Dean up the stairs. He catches him at the top, sweeping him into an embrace, and they kiss their way down the hall, Castiel kicking the chamber door shut behind them.

“Dean,” he says, then stops. He looks strangely young, his wet shirt clinging to his chest, his face open and vulnerable in a way Dean has rarely seen it.

Something warm curls in Dean’s chest at the sight of him, something that makes him feel strangely invincible.

He strips off the last of his wet clothing and drops it to the ground, falling back onto the bed as he does. Even from across the room, he can see Castiel’s eyes darken and his hands shake as he pulls his own shirt over his shoulders and then joins Dean on the bed.

“Now, where were we?” Dean murmurs, already reaching for him.

“Right about here,” Castiel responds as he positions himself above Dean.

“I think we may have progressed somewhat,” Dean says with a wink. “But I won’t complain.” He runs his hands down Castiel’s back, then rests them just above the swell of his ass, teasing.

Castiel shudders under his touch and holds himself still, the muscles in his arms standing out as he keeps himself braced above Dean’s body. And then they’re kissing again, slow, lazy exchanges that steal away Dean’s breath and send all the blood in his body rushing towards his groin.

As much as he likes having Castiel like this, boxing him in and making him feel safe and protected from all else, Dean wants to take this chance to express his own devotion, and another position would be best suited to that task. So he takes hold of Castiel’s shoulders and rolls them over together, ignoring his brief noise of surprise, until Castiel is spread out before him. 

Dean takes a moment to admire the sight. Castiel’s skin is bathed in the golden glow from the candles around the room, and though the rain has mostly dried from their skin, it makes his dark hair curl softly around his forehead like some sort of halo. Dean brushes aside a tendril and places a kiss to the centre of his brow, then moves to his nose, his lips, his chin, down the line of his throat. 

“Dean,” Castiel breathes, and Dean shushes him with another kiss. “Let me,” he murmurs as he draws back. “Let me.”

Castiel nods wordlessly, then cries out in pleasure as Dean lowers his head to his chest and sucks one nipple into his mouth, biting lightly. His hands close in Dean’s hair, gently, as Dean repeats the motion on the other side, then presses a kiss directly over his heart. 

Here is where Castiel keeps him. Where he holds him most dear. Knowing that...Dean shakes his head in amazement, then moves his mouth lower, licking and nipping at the toned skin over Castiel’s stomach. He leaves a few marks there, relishing the way Castiel groans when he applies just the right amount of pressure, then pulling back slightly to admire his handiwork.

“What do you wish of me, my lord?” he asks, keeping one hand on the curve of Castiel’s hip to steady him. “Anything. You need only ask, and it is yours.”

Castiel shrugs and says, “Whatever you desire.”

“No,” Dean tells him. He may not be able to speak his love out loud, not yet, but he can do this. He can show it the best way he knows how. “Tell me.”

He can see the struggle it causes Castiel, his reluctance to ask anything of Dean. But Dean is offering, and he can be patient. He waits as Castiel bites his lip, eyes darting between Dean’s face and the shadowed place between his legs, and then finally says, “I should like to feel you inside me.”

Dean shudders at his words, at the barely-disguised heat to them. Yes, he should like that too. The first time he had lain with Castiel that way had been a revelation to him, and though he never tires of having Castiel inside him, he takes great pride in bringing pleasure to him with their positions reversed.

So he continues to kiss at Castiel’s stomach, and then across the tops of his thighs, tantalizingly close to his straining length. Castiel moans and squirms beneath him, trying to align himself with Dean’s mouth, so Dean tightens his grip on one hip and keeps him in place. Then, taking pity on him, he takes Castiel into his mouth.

A wondrous sigh escapes Castiel as Dean works at him with lips and tongue, the weight and taste of him so familiar now. While Castiel is sufficiently distracted, Dean manages to reach across and find the jar of oil on the table by the bed, slicking up his free hand and reaching between Castiel’s legs.

Castiel opens for him on a long exhale, his eyes fixed steadily on Dean’s face. He’s quiet as Dean breaches the tight ring of muscle, but his breathing quickens and a most gorgeous shade of rose spreads all across his chest. He is, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing Dean has ever seen. 

And when Dean has three fingers pressed inside him, twisting them in just the right way, the sounds that spill from Castiel are sweeter than any music he has ever heard.

“Please, Dean,” he begs, eyes wide and mouth slack with pleasure. “I need--”

“Shh,” Dean tells him, kissing him gently. “I know, my lord. I know.”

He slides into Castiel’s body in the next breath, and it’s as though time stops. The world outside this bed falls away, and all that remains is the two of them, the lines between them so blurred that when Castiel sighs out his pleasure, Dean hears the echo of his own voice making the same sound. And yet, somehow, Dean feels an overwhelming need to be closer still.

So he leans forward and presses their lips together as he begins to thrust into Castiel in earnest, the sound of their bodies moving together ringing in his ears. Castiel is chanting his name, his eyes closed as he holds tightly to Dean’s back, so tight Dean is certain he’ll find lingering marks there later. He cares not. He wants to see them, wants to know that he is treasured, that he is well-loved, and wants to ensure that Castiel feels the same.

When he feels his climax approaching, Dean pulls away so that he can look down into his lover’s face, and Castiel smiles up at him, reaching up to trace the line of his cheek. Dean turns his face into the touch and feels his orgasm wash over him like a wave, inevitable as the turning of the tide, and then Castiel follows soon after.

Dean collapses on the bed, surprised to find himself shaking with the intensity of what they just shared. Castiel rolls over and looks down at him, concerned. “Are you alright?” he asks softly.

Turning so he can nuzzle against his chest, Dean replies, “Yes. Just….overwhelmed.”

“Yes, well,” Castiel remarks wryly. “We have had a rather eventful few days.”

Dean laughs and turns his face up for a kiss, ignoring the mess between them. Castiel moves as though to wipe them down, but Dean grabs his arm and tucks it around himself. “Later,” he says sleepily. 

“Very well,” Castiel says. 

And just before Dean drifts away to sleep, he hears Castiel murmur it into his hair once more. “I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may also have noticed we now have a total chapter count for this story! As of yesterday, the draft is complete, though the last few chapters need some serious editing. We're just over halfway!


	9. Chapter 9

Someday, when Dean is old, he will think back on those days in the country and smile, remembering them as some of the best of his life. The long-ranging rides through fields and forests, the hours spent curled up in that window seat, the long nights of their bodies taking both joy and rest in each other. 

The two weeks pass far too quickly, and soon enough, it’s the day before their planned return to London. Part of Dean wishes they could stay here forever, but he knows it cannot be, and he forces himself to be grateful for the time they have had away from the city rather than dreading their return. 

They’ve taken a long ride, Dean having grown accustomed to Marchioness over the past weeks, and have ranged farther from the estate than they initially planned. “I’m sorry,” Castiel tells him, chagrined. “I lost track of how far we’d gone.”

Dean doesn’t mind, not really. “Other than being perhaps a bit hungry, I have no complaints,” he replies.

“We can remedy that easily enough.” Castiel pats Earl’s neck fondly and directs him to the right of the path they’re travelling along. “There’s an inn not far from here. The food is quite good, from what I remember.”

“Lead on, then.” With only a gentle nudge from Dean, Marchioness follows calmly after Earl. He’s going to miss her, Dean realizes. What a strange thing. 

As Castiel promised, the inn is not far, a comfortable, rambling sort of building with a sign so faded Dean can’t even make out the name. The groom who takes their horses is polite, though his eyes go wide at the sight of Castiel, and he stumbles over his words several times as he assures them that Earl and Marchioness will be given the best of care. Dean watches fondly as Castiel smiles at him and thanks him for his attention. The boy will tell this tale for years, he thinks, the story of the day Lord Castiel Milton came to his inn and left his horses under the boy’s care.

The inn’s proprietor seems equally shocked to see the local lord stroll into her establishment, but she handles it with far more grace. Coming around the counter to greet them, she gives a respectful curtsey. “Good evening, my lord,” she says. “This is an unexpected honour.”

“We rode farther than we intended today, and our hunger led us here,” Castiel replies with a soft laugh. “Might we trouble you for whatever it is that smells so wonderful?”

“No trouble at all,” the landlady says. “Right this way, my lords.” She sneaks a curious glance at Dean as she leads them further into the building, no doubt wondering who he is. He gives her a polite smile, amused to consider what she will say about him after they’ve left.

“We have a private parlour,” she says as they pass the open dining room, “but if you prefer to dine with the rest…” she trails off, raising an eyebrow at Castiel, who shrugs and looks to Dean for direction.

It might be pleasant, a small room just for the two of them, but Dean knows Castiel prefers not to stand on ceremony when possible. He suspects it might bring him no small amount of pleasure to play at being an ordinary guest for an evening. “The dining room is perfectly suitable,” he answers, and sees Castiel’s eyes light up in happiness. 

The landlady dips her chin at him in what Dean thinks is a gesture of respect, perhaps admiration. “Very well,” she says, and gestures them forward. 

“Oi, Ellen,” someone calls out as they enter the room, “another ale, if you please!”

“You can wait a moment more, Tom,” she calls back, shaking her head. “I have other guests to see to.”

A hush falls over the room as its occupants look up from their meals and see who has joined them. Dean watches their reactions carefully, curious as to what the locals think of their lord. They all clearly recognize him, though by his account it has been years since Castiel has visited this area. Most of their faces show surprise first and foremost, which gradually gives way to bright smiles. “That’s lord Milton, that is,” he hears one man whisper to his companion. “The very picture of his father, ain’t he?”

Ellen steers them to a vacant table in the corner of the room, ignoring the whispers around her, and lists off the evening’s offerings. After Dean and Castiel request to sample a selection of everything, she curtseys again and leaves them, stopping to chat with several other patrons along the way. 

“I hope I chose correctly, asking to dine here,” Dean says, gaze wandering around the room. “I thought you might enjoy it. I did not count on there being so many others, though.”

Castiel smiles gently at him. “You thought correctly. And I don’t mind the others. Ellen seems to run a proper establishment. I have no fear of belligerent drunkards coming to give me a piece of their mind about whatever might be troubling them.”

Dean stifles a laugh at the thought. “Now that would be a sight to see.”

They’re interrupted by a young woman carrying their mugs of ale. She sets them down on the table with a little flourish that could be considered a curtsey, though it’s not nearly as practiced as Ellen’s. “I know who you are, of course, Lord Milton,” she says, “but we’ve been wondering who you’ve brought with you tonight.” She nods in Dean’s direction.

Rather than being offended by her forwardness, Castiel seems rather charmed by it. “This is my dear friend, Mr. Dean Winchester,” he replies. “We have been spending the past few weeks at my estate together.”

Her eyes widen, and she gives Dean a curious look. “Well, you’re most welcome here, my lords,” she says. 

“Thank you,” Dean says, flattered to be as much as topic of interest as Castiel. “And who do we have the honour of addressing?”

A bright grin spreads across her face. “Joanna Beth Harvelle,” she says proudly, “but you may call me Jo. My mother runs the inn.”

“And a fine job she does of it,” Castiel tells her. “Will you do the same someday, do you think?”

Jo shrugs. “Maybe,” she says, with the air of one who cannot be bothered to think that far ahead. “If my brother does not wish to.”

“Well, I wish you the best in any future endeavours,” Castiel says gravely.

It’s sweet, the way he talks to her. The way he talks to anyone, no matter their position or social standing. Over the course of their meal, several other guests come up to greet them, their approaches ranging from shy to awestruck to convivial. Castiel makes easy conversation with all of them, accepts their good wishes with grace, and promises them all that he will attempt to make his visits to the area more frequent in the future. 

As Castiel promised, the food is excellent, and by the time they’ve finished everything Ellen has set in front of them, Dean feels as though his stomach might burst. “Marchioness may have some difficulty bearing my weight after this meal,” he comments as he drains the last of his ale. 

“I’m quite sure the stable boy is feeding her and Earl very well,” Castiel replies with a laugh. “They will be willing and able to rise to the occasion.”

With a final wave to the few remaining patrons, Dean and Castiel leave their table and return to the entryway of the inn. Ellen attempts to wave away their payment, but Castiel insists, firmly but politely. “Such a wonderful meal deserves fair recompense,” he tells her.

Ellen clucks her tongue but accepts his money, a flush of what Dean thinks is likely pride staining her cheeks. “Never let it be said that I served Lord Castiel Milton an inferior supper,” she mutters, then drops into a curtsey. “It has been an honour and a pleasure, my lords. I’ll have my boy fetch your horses.”

“I’m sure we can find them ourselves,” Dean starts to call after her, but she’s already shouting something unintelligible up the stairs. A few moments later, there’s the sound of hurried footsteps coming towards them, and Dean’s words catch in his throat.

The young man who reaches the bottom of the stairs and turns to them with an easy smile is taller than he is in Dean’s memories, of course. A man nearly grown, not a child. His hair is longer, his shoulders broader, but Dean would recognize those hazel eyes, the set of his mouth, anywhere in the world.

“Sam?” he says hoarsely.

He hears Castiel’s sharply indrawn breath, sees Ellen’s eyes go wide, but all he can focus on is his brother’s face, such an unexpected sight in this of all places. Sam pauses, drawing back slightly, and stares at Dean as though trying to determine why this apparent stranger knows his name.

Sam doesn’t recognize him. And why should he? Dean is dressed as a young gentleman, on the arm of the local lord, and they have not seen one another for six years. It should not hurt as much as it does, but the pain in his heart is sharp and throbbing. 

And then-- “Dean?”

The absolute shock in Sam’s voice. The wonder, the amazement. The speed with which he crosses the space between them, eyes fixed on Dean’s face. He stops right before he reaches him, and stretches out one hand, letting it linger in the air. “Is it really you?”

Dean can do nothing but nod, his throat gone completely dry. Sam lets out a wordless cry and steps forward, and Dean’s arms come around him, and something in his chest loosens, something that has burdened him for so long finally dissipating.

After a long embrace, Dean finally pulls back to look into his brother’s face. Sam looks well. He looks happy, and well-fed, and he clearly has a roof over his head and a place to sleep at night. Dean does not believe in God, but he casts his eyes skyward and murmurs a prayer of thanks regardless. 

“How is this possible?” Sam asks, still clutching tight to Dean’s shoulder. He’s the taller of the two of them, Dean notes with some amusement. He always was a lanky child. “How--”

“I think we’d all like to know that,” Ellen interjects, coming to stand beside Sam. She folds her arms over her chest and gives Dean a questioning look. “I think there are many questions we need to ask.”

“Perhaps that private parlour may be of use after all,” Castiel says smoothly. His solid presence beside Dean is reassuring, and he lays a comforting hand between Dean’s shoulders as he steers them further back into the inn and into the parlour. Ellen leaves them for a moment, coming back with a pitcher of ale and Jo following behind her. Ellen shuts the parlour door behind them, and they all take seats in silence. Dean sits across from Sam so that he can continue to stare at him, afraid that if he takes his eyes away for even a second, Sam will disappear once more.

Once they’re all settled, the questions burst forth. “How is it you came to be here?” Dean asks. “We’ve been looking for you, but Miss Wilson said you left London years ago, and we never thought we’d be able to locate you past the city borders--”

“You’ve seen Ava?” Sam says, sitting up in his chair. “How did you even know about her, I didn’t meet her until after--”

“Please,” Ellen interrupts. “Might we start at the beginning? I, for one, have very little idea what is happening here.”

“Nor do I,” Jo adds. “Sam? Do you know these gentlemen?”

Sam takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. “I do not know him,” he says, nodding in Castiel’s direction, “but that--” he looks across the table and smiles, “that is my brother, Dean, who I thought I would never see again.”

“Good lord,” Ellen says, her eyes widening. “Well, there’s a story there, I’m sure. You always said your family was long dead, Sam.”

“I thought--” Sam shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter now. Whatever I thought, I was wrong.”

It does matter, though, at least to Dean. “Please,” he says softly. “If you can bear to tell it, Sam, I must know. We’ve been fortunate enough to learn some things, but I would like to hear the story from you.”

Sam nods, and Ellen reaches out and rubs his shoulder, murmuring something into his ear. It’s a familiar touch, a motherly touch. Dean is glad to see it, glad that Sam has had that kind of affection in his life.

“Well,” he begins, “it starts right here. Not in this very room, but in this inn. I had left London days before, with no sense of where I was headed. I had a small amount of money, enough to keep me fed, but it was running low quicker than I anticipated. And a bad storm was blowing in, so I sought refuge in the barn here, thinking I could slip in unnoticed and leave again the next morning when the weather cleared.”

A small smile crosses Castiel’s face. “I think I begin to see where this story is going.”

The corner of Sam’s mouth quirks up in response. “I imagine so. Jo came in to see to the horses and discovered me sleeping in the corner. Let out quite the unearthly shriek, and Ellen came running to investigate.”

“Thin as a switch, he was,” Ellen says, shaking her head. “And so afraid. Poor lad.”

Dean can picture it perfectly: Sam, poised for flight, Jo and Ellen shocked but not threatened by his presence in their stables. The wariness with which Sam would approach them at Ellen’s kind words, her patience with him.

“They took me in,” Sam says, casting a fond look at Jo and Ellen. “I was a stranger to them, just a lost boy with nothing but a few cents to his name, but they gave me a place to sleep, let me work for my room and board, and never made me feel as though I was a burden to them.”

Dean’s throat is tight. He has imagined so much worse for Sam over the years. Knowing now that he has spent the past few in such good care is a much-needed relief to him. He meets Ellen’s eyes across the table, swallows heavily, and says, “Thank you. For taking care of him when I could not.”

“It’s been our privilege,” Ellen says softly, running a fond hand through Sam’s hair. He bats her hand away with a grin on his face that tells Dean this is a long-established routine between the two of them.

“And I’ve been here ever since,” Sam concludes. “But Dean, how on earth did you find me? I thought there was no chance we would see each other again, especially not after I left London.”

How can Dean explain that it was merely chance that they rode too far today, that they stopped at the inn for their supper, that Ellen called Sam down to help with the horses rather than allowing them to attend to them on their own? It sounds too fantastical to be believed. He casts a helpless look at Castiel, who squeezes his knee lightly beneath the table. 

“We had been looking for you,” Castiel answers on Dean’s behalf. “For some time now.”

Sam frowns, looking between Dean and Castiel. “Forgive me,” he says slowly, “but who are you, precisely?”

“Sam,” Jo hisses, smacking him on the arm. “That’s Lord Castiel Milton.”

“Very well,” Sam says, not taking his eyes off Castiel, “but how do you know my brother?”

Dean flushes, but holds his head high. “I should think that is obvious,” he says, and watches as understanding dawns on Sam’s face. 

“Oh,” is all he says, and in that moment Dean is reminded how very young Sam still is. He visibly struggles to collect himself, then says, “And you...how exactly did you go about looking for me? I tried to find you, Dean, as soon as we were parted, but...”

“It’s alright,” Dean says softly. “It isn’t easy, finding someone who has been swallowed by London’s streets. But we had connections, of a sort. People we knew might have information, or who would be able to locate it for us. One of them led us to your friend, Miss Wilson.”

“How is she?” Sam asks eagerly. “I can’t believe you found her.”

“She seems well,” Dean offers. “She will be pleased to know that you are equally well.” He hesitates then, looking between Ellen and Jo, wondering how much they know about Sam’s life before he came to stay with them. “She...told us about your time together.”

Correctly interpreting his caution, Sam makes a dismissive gesture. “They know,” he says simply. “You may speak freely.”

“She told us about the man you called Yellow-Eyes,” Dean says, looking away from his brother for a brief moment. “Sam...I wish you never had to experience that. I should have found you earlier, I should have looked harder--”

“You can’t blame yourself.” Surprisingly, it’s Ellen who is the first to reassure him. “You couldn’t have been much more than a child yourself at the time.”

“I never blamed you, Dean,” Sam insists. “I only wished we might see each other again someday. And here we are.”

“And here we are,” Dean echoes. He can still barely believe it. There is so much he wants to say, so much he wants to know, and it seems all he can do is sit here, looking at his brother’s face for the first time in years, and feel the smile on his own.

“But Dean.” Sam leans forward on his elbows, his eyes alight with curiosity, just as they always were whenever Dean would tell him a tale before bed. “Where have you been all this time?” He sneaks a glance at Castiel, then looks back at Dean. “What have you been doing?”

Dean flinches back from the question and feels Castiel’s grip tighten on his knee. “That’s a tale for another time,” he says, hating the look of disappointment that crosses Sam’s face. He wants to be honest with his brother, wants to share everything with him, but he will not ruin this long-sought reunion with memories of his sordid past. Besides, he ought not to speak of such things in front of Jo, he tells himself. 

Sam’s smile only falters for a moment. “Another time, then,” he agrees. “Even knowing that will be possible--” he trails off, shaking his head in amazement.

“I know,” Dean says. “It is an incredible thing, is it not?”

His mind is already racing with all the plans he has for the two of them. Sam would love to see many of the places Castiel first took him, especially the museum. And he’s quite certain Sam and Celeste would become fast friends. And oh, how the gossips would love another handsome country lad to wag their tongues over! He chuckles at the very thought of it, the young men and women who would flirt outrageously with Sam. 

Across the table, Jo barely manages to stifle a yawn. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s all very exciting, but it’s also very late.”

“It is,” Castiel agrees. “Dean, we really should be going.”

“Nonsense,” Ellen says firmly. “You’ll stay the night, of course. I will not have you traveling at night, and especially not now that these two boys have found each other again.”

Dean sneaks a hopeful glance at Castiel, who gives him a brief smile before nodding courteously at Ellen. “That would be most appreciated. I confess I did not look forward to riding in the dark.”

“Come, I’ll prepare you a room.” Ellen ushers Jo and Castiel from the room, pausing at the door to look back at Sam and Dean. “Now don’t you lads stay up all night chattering,” she warns. “You’ll still be here in the morning, the both of you.”

“Goodnight, Ellen,” Sam says, rolling his eyes fondly. Dean echoes the sentiment, and she gives them one last smile and shakes her head before leaving them alone in the room.

Silence falls between them, but it is not uncomfortable. Eventually, Sam begins to laugh, and Dean joins him soon after. All these years, all the pain and worry, and finally they are together once more. It is so unbelievable as to be absurd. 

“I can’t believe we found you,” Dean says. “Sam. Little Sammy.”

“Not so little now,” Sam points out, a touch smug. “I’m taller than you.”

“That you are. But I suspect I could still beat you in a wrestling match.”

Sam scoffs at the thought. “I doubt it.”

“In the morning,” Dean challenges. “We’ll test that theory.”

“You have a deal,” Sam says solemnly, holding out his hand for Dean to shake. Dean takes it, grips it tightly, and then lets go. 

“Well,” he says. “I suppose we ought to say goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Dean,” Sam says. “I’m--” he takes a deep breath, then blows it out noisily. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“As am I,” Dean says softly. He claps Sam on the shoulder, marveling at the strength he can feel in him, and then leaves the parlour, glancing back behind himself to wave one last time. 

He finds Ellen leaving a room at the top of the stairs, and as he comes closer she looks up and smiles at him. “Rest well, my lord,” she says. 

Dean wants to protest, to tell her he is no true lord, but there is little sense in making a fuss now. Instead, he bows over her hand, ignoring her muttered words of surprise. “I have thanked you already,” he says, “but I could spend the rest of my life saying it, and yet it would never convey the depth of my gratitude.”

“Hush now,” she says, patting him gently on the cheek. “What was I to do, leave the poor boy to starve? I only did what any person with a compassionate heart would do.”

“You gave him a home, and a family, when he had neither,” Dean says softly. “Knowing that he has been cared for--” he breaks off, shaking his head.

Ellen tilts her head to the side and purses her lips. “You’ve worried about him, all these years,” she guesses. “And yet it’s only been recently that you’ve looked for him in earnest.” 

Dean cannot tell if it is judgment or mere curiosity in her voice, but he flushes nevertheless. “It’s only recently--”

She holds up a hand to stop him. “You don’t owe me an explanation,” she says. “But you do owe it to Sam.”

Dean sighs heavily. “I know,” he murmurs. “And I will explain, in due time.”

She gives him a considering look, and then nods. “Good,” is all she says. “Pleasant dreams, my lord.”

“And to you,” he replies automatically.

He closes the door behind him and slumps against the frame, suddenly exhausted. He feels Castiel come to stand beside him, his warm hands guiding Dean further into the room, then pushing him gently onto the bed. He only protests when he feels Castiel tugging at his boots to remove them. “That’s really not necessary,” he says, but Castiel just gives him a level look and continues to undress him. 

Once they’re both stripped down to their drawers and loose shirts, he blows out the candle and climbs into bed beside Dean, pulling him close and arranging them so Dean’s head rests on his chest. Dean grumbles, but after a few moments, adjusts himself to his liking and lets loose a long sigh.

“Is this truly happening, or is this a dream?” he whispers into the dark.

Castiel laughs, but gently. “It’s truly happening,” he assures Dean. “Though I am loathe to use the language, it seems nothing short of a miracle.”

“A miracle indeed,” Dean echoes. “He’s so tall, Castiel. He’s grown up so well.”

_Better than he would have under your care_ , whispers a treacherous voice in the back of his mind. Dean swallows roughly and forces that thought aside. Perhaps it was true years ago, but he has come so far since then. He and Castiel can offer Sam so much more, now. 

“He seems a fine young man,” Castiel agrees. “Oh, Dean, I cannot tell you how happy this makes me, knowing how you have suffered without him.”

He lays a gentle kiss on Dean’s forehead, and Dean leans up into his warmth. “I never would have found him without you,” he says quietly. “Not only for your connections, but for your support, for your patience--”

“For my good chance in having a country estate located so near the inn he happens to have made his home?” Castiel says wryly.

“Yes, for that as well.” Dean leans up on one elbow and kisses him, slow and sweet. “I do hope the two of you will be friends.”

“I’m certain that we will,” Castiel assures him. “Now, let’s get some rest.”

It’s far easier said than done. It doesn’t take long for Castiel’s breathing to even out, but Dean lies awake, unable to stop his mind from spinning. He dozes fitfully for a few hours, and when the sun begins to peek in through the window, he climbs out of bed, careful not to disturb Castiel, and dresses for the day before descending the stairs.

The rest of the inn is quiet, but it isn’t long before he hears footsteps on the stairs and looks up to see his brother coming towards him. He doesn’t think he will ever tire of the sight. 

He offers a smile, and Sam returns it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I'm going to write the sequel about finding Sam!  
> Also me: doesn't have him appear until Chapter Nine
> 
> If you've stuck it out this far, thank you so much.


	10. Chapter 10

Dean circles his brother warily, waiting for a chance to catch him off guard. Sam has a look of intense concentration on his face, but there’s a smile tucked into the corners of his mouth, and when he glances up and meets Dean’s eyes, mischief sparkles there. He lunges forward and grabs for Dean, who steps easily out of his way.

“You’re going to have to be faster than that,” Dean taunts.

“Just testing your reflexes,” Sam replies. “You are getting old, Dean.”

Dean scoffs and swats at him, but Sam blocks his blow with ease. They’re both stripped to just their loose shirts, the open space in front of the inn proving a perfect area for their contest. Ellen took one look at the two of the them and shook her head despairingly, then retreated back inside to prepare breakfast. Jo is watching from the sidelines, mostly cheering for Sam but also laughing every time Dean comes close to landing a hit. 

They used to play-fight like this when they were younger. Dean always went easy on his brother then, conscious of the difference in their size and strength, but they’re far more evenly matched now. He’s panting slightly, and he knows he’ll have bruises from the times he dropped to the ground to avoid Sam’s reach, but he’s happier than he’s been in a long, long time.

As they move around each other, both waiting for an opening, Dean is distracted by the door of the inn opening and a figure emerging from inside. It’s Castiel, blinking in the light of the sun, one hand coming up to shield his eyes as he takes in the scene before him.

Of course, that moment’s pause is exactly the opportunity Sam needs, and he lunges forward, sending Dean tumbling to the ground.

He grins down at Dean in triumph, keeping him pinned with one arm across his chest. “I knew I would win,” he declares.

Dean sighs, pretending to relax under his grip, but then quickly flips them over so Sam is the one on the ground. “But did you?”

Sam tries valiantly to escape his hold, but it’s no use. Eventually, he goes still, throwing up his arms in surrender. “Very well,” he sighs. “Now let me up.”

Dean rises to his feet and extends a hand to pull Sam up. Jo and Castiel both applaud as they sling their arms over each other’s shoulders and cross the yard to join them. 

“You missed the best moments,” Dean informs Castiel, leaning in for a quick kiss. 

“I was here in time to witness your victory,” Castiel replies. “And a thrilling one it was.”

“Do not become accustomed to it,” Sam warns Dean. “I’ll beat you yet.”

“Of course you will,” Jo tells him, though she does not look entirely convinced. “But may we please have breakfast first?”

“A fine idea,” Castiel says. “After you and Sam bathe,” he adds to Dean.

Dean begins to protest, but at Castiel’s stern look, he subsides. With a sigh, he drags Sam with him to wash off the dust and grime before joining the others for their morning meal.

He is careful to keep his back turned away from Sam as they wash, not wanting to risk a conversation about his scars. Fortunately, Sam does not seem to notice.

“Lord Castiel seems a kind man,” he says instead. There is a question in his statement, though Dean cannot identify it precisely.

“He is,” he agrees. 

“You are…” Sam hesitates for a moment. “You are happy, with him?”

“Very much so,” Dean replies softly.

“That’s good.” Sam gives him an satisfied nod. “That is very good to hear.”

“Sam, you’re the younger brother,” Dean reminds him with a laugh. “It’s not your job to be protective over me.”

“Of course it is.” Sam tosses a towel towards Dean and begins dressing himself. “We look out for each other, remember?”

Yes, Dean remembers. He remembers exactly how he failed to do just that. 

“There is no need,” he says, forcing a confident smile to his face. “Though I appreciate the sentiment.”

Sam nods again, then leaves the room. Dean takes a few more minutes to finish dressing, then follows him down the stairs in search of sustenance.

It’s early enough that there are only a few other guests in the dining room, and Jo is able to join them for most of the meal without being called away to wait on the others. Once again, Ellen has prepared a wonderful meal. 

“It’s no wonder you grew up so big if you’ve been eating this well,” Dean comments in between bites of his food. 

“Then how does that explain poor Jo being so small?” Sam questions, shooting a smug look at Jo.

“I still have time to grow,” she says haughtily. “And besides, we can’t all be great hulking brutes like yourself.”

Sam reaches over and tugs at her hair, and she smacks him with her spoon, making them both laugh while Ellen simply rolls her eyes as though this is a common occurrence. Dean supposes it must be. He’s happy, seeing Sam and Jo interact, that Sam had someone to bicker with like this. Had someone like a sibling by his side all these years, even if it wasn’t Dean. 

As they finish eating, Dean notices that Castiel has gone unusually quiet. He reaches beneath the table and lays a hand on his knee, sending him a questioning look. Castiel glances at him with a small smile and squeezes his hand lightly, but there’s something sad in his eyes.

“As much as I have enjoyed this time, I fear I do have business that calls me back to London,” he says, giving Dean a sidelong glance. “I wish it were not the case.”

Dean had forgotten, somehow, that they were meant to return to London today. In his excitement over finding Sam, such things hardly seemed to matter.

“Of course, you need not accompany me,” Castiel continues, turning to face Dean fully. “You could stay here a while longer, and I could return as quickly as possible.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Dean assures him. “Sam is coming with us.”

Jo makes a noise of surprise, and when Dean turns to look at his brother, he sees only puzzlement on his face.

“I am?” Sam asks slowly.

“Of course,” Dean replies. He thought that should have been obvious. But based on the reactions of everyone else at the table, perhaps he was alone in that. He takes in their expressions, the concern in Ellen’s eyes, and then the breath leaves his lungs in a shaky exhale. “Aren’t you?”

“I--” Sam runs a hand through his hair, not meeting Dean’s eyes. “I had not intended to.”

“But--” Dean pushes his chair back and starts to rise, but Castiel reaches up and gently guides him back into his seat. “But Sam. We’ve only just found one another again.”

“I know,” Sam says softly. “And I’m thrilled, Dean, truly. But my life is here.”

Dean can do nothing but stare. For all the times he imagined his reunion with Sam, he never expected this. Never expected that he might not be a priority for Sam the way Sam is for him.

“But we’re family,” he says, desperately holding back the sob rising in his chest.

“We are,” Sam agrees, finally meeting Dean’s gaze. “But I have another family now.”

His statement knocks the air out of Dean’s lungs. Dean sits back in his chair, hands clenched tightly at his sides. His mouth opens, but no words emerge. Distantly, he hears Castiel say something, but the words are mere noise to him.

It’s too late. Dean waited too long, and now Sam has replaced him. He can’t fault him for that, he supposes. He found a new family, a better family. And now Dean expects him to leave all that behind? Foolish, really. He should have known better.

Slowly, the room comes back into focus. “Perhaps you might consider a visit?” Castiel is saying. “Nothing so dramatic as a permanent displacement. But we would be honoured to have you stay with us for as long as you’d like.”

Sam casts a doubtful look at Ellen. “I don’t wish to leave you in need,” he says quietly.

“Hush now,” Ellen replies briskly. “If you wish to go to London, then go.” She leans over and says something to Sam, something too quiet for the rest of the table to overhear. But as she straightens back up, her eyes sweep over Dean, and there’s nothing but compassion in her gaze.

“You should go,” Jo says abruptly.

Dean turns to look at her, surprised. If he thought to find support, it was not from her. But she’s looking at Sam with a wry twist to her mouth, and her voice is firm. “You know you always have a home with us,” she tells him. “But you should go.”

If Sam requires this much convincing, then perhaps Dean ought to drop the subject. He takes a deep breath, but before he can say as much, Sam nods.

“You’re right,” he says slowly. Then he looks over at Dean, expression unreadable. “I’m not promising--”

“I know,” Dean replies hastily. “You should not have to choose. I would not ask you to. I only ask for more time with you. To make up for what we’ve lost.”

Finally, Sam smiles. It’s small, and tentative, but it’s there. “When do we leave?” he asks.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Dean turns to look at Castiel. “You’re on our route back to London,” Castiel says thoughtfully. “Dean and I must return to my estate, and then we can stop along our journey and fetch you from here later this afternoon.”

“It will give you time to pack,” Ellen says, nodding in approval. 

“And time to say my goodbyes,” Sam adds softly. “Very well.”

“Then we ought to take our leave,” Castiel murmurs. “For now.”

Dean nods and rises to his feet. Before he can return to their room to begin packing, though, he pauses to speak to Sam, who is hovering in the doorway as though still unsure about this plan.

“If you truly do not wish to--” he begins, but Sam shakes his head fiercely.

“I do,” he says. “It’s only...my memories of London are not all pleasant, Dean. The thought of returning does not fill me with joy.”

Dean winces. He ought to have made that connection. “You’re right,” he acknowledges. “But I promise you, it’s another side to London entirely. And Castiel and I will be there, and we can invite your friend Miss Wilson to visit, whatever you desire.” He swallows roughly and looks up at Sam. “I just want you to be happy.”

“I know,” Sam replies. He claps Dean on the shoulder and strides away.

Sensing Castiel’s presence at his side, Dean turns to look at him. “Are you alright?” Castiel inquires.

“I will be,” Dean says, hoping that it’s the truth. “Come. We ought to make ready to leave.”

They only say quick farewells, knowing they will return in a few hours’ time. There is a small part of Dean that finds it difficult to ride away, even knowing that they will be back soon. A part of him that does not trust that Sam will still be there. But he forces himself to remain calm, to remain hopeful. 

After all, he found Sam again, all these years later. There is nothing that can keep them apart, not now.

***

The doors of the country house close behind them, and Dean casts one look back at the house as they climb into the carriage. A wistful sigh escapes his lips, and Castiel turns to give him a sympathetic look. “We’ll return soon,” he promises.

Cain, standing at attention at the foot of the stairs, lifts a hand in farewell, a hint of a smile hidden behind his beard. “I hope you do,” he says. “It was good to see you, my lord.” He turns and gives a small bow to Dean. “And to make your acquaintance, sir.”

Dean smiles back at him. “Keep the house well-looked after for us,” he says, knowing Cain has no intention of doing otherwise.

“Of course,” Cain replies. “Farewell.”

Dean watches out the window of the carriage as the house disappears from sight. Catching his mood, Castiel lifts his hand and presses it against his lips. “You could yet stay,” he reminds Dean. 

But Dean shakes his head. “Perhaps it makes me selfish, or greedy,” he murmurs, “but I wish to be with you and also with Sam. I do not wish to have to choose.”

“You don’t need to choose,” Castiel tells him. “I swear. And you are far from selfish. It’s only natural to want to be surrounded by those you care about.”

“I suppose.” Dean continues to stare out the window, pensive. “Are we doing the right thing? Asking Sam to stay with us?”

Castiel blinks at him in surprise. “Is that not what you wanted?”

“It was,” Dean says, “but now--” He lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “I worry that I may have put too much pressure on him.”

“He’s a grown man, or nearly so,” Castiel reminds him. “He is capable of making his own decisions. And yes, your desire to have him come to London would have had some influence on that decision, but he still made that choice. And besides, we agreed it’s only temporary. He can decide to leave whenever he wishes.”

“And what if he leaves immediately?” Dean turns to face Castiel, his voice breaking. “What if he hates it there, what if he--” 

Though he cannot voice it aloud, Castiel intuits Dean’s true fear, the one that is causing him so much turmoil. “Your brother loves you,” he says. “It’s clear to any who saw the two of you together. Even if London is not to his taste, he will not leave you again, Dean. Not permanently.”

“I thought it would be easier,” Dean finally admits. To Castiel, and to himself. “I thought if it ever happened, if we did find Sam, it would be so simple. Everything would fall into place.”

“And you cannot be faulted for wishing that,” Castiel says. “But perhaps, it would be best for all of us if we were to look at the situation more realistically.”

“How so?” Dean asks.

“Well, we know that Sam has a family, a life here. And that he is happy. You have no wish to make him choose, so we must assume he will still spend a great deal of time here. And therefore, you must be prepared to not always have him with you.”

Dean nods slowly. “I know,” he says. “But I think, knowing that he is well, that he is safe and loved, will make his absences far easier to bear.”

“And you must not take his leaving to heart,” Castiel says firmly. He slides over on the seat and presses himself more closely to Dean’s side. “If he chooses to not make his stay with us a long one, it will not be because he loves you any less, I assure you.” He pauses for a moment. “You left behind a life you hated, and immersed yourself fully into this new journey with me. But things are not so simple for Sam.”

Hearing Castiel say it makes the situation far more clear for Dean. Sam is not fleeing a life of misery the way Dean was when he came to live with Castiel. If they had found him years earlier, when he was still with Yellow Eyes and the other children, perhaps it would have been different. But Sam does not need saving, does not need a place of refuge. He has that already. 

Dean must offer him something else, then. But all he has is himself. 

“I’ve upset you,” Castiel says with a sigh. “That was not my intent.”

“No,” Dean protests, shaking his head. “I’m not upset. Merely...thoughtful.”

Castiel does not look entirely convinced, but he nods. “Very well. We’ll be arriving at the inn shortly.”

“Good.” Dean looks up at him and smiles. “I miss Sam already.”

Jo is waiting to greet them when the carriage rolls to a halt in front of the inn, her arms crossed over her chest. She does not smile as they emerge from the carriage, and Castiel gives Dean a look that is equal parts confusion and amusement. 

“Hello again, Miss Harvelle,” he says gallantly. “Is something the matter?”

She ignores Castiel entirely, directing her words to Dean. “If something happens to him, I’m holding you responsible,” she says fiercely.

It ought to be ridiculous. She’s so much smaller than Dean, but the set of her jaw and the steel in her eyes almost make him take a step back. 

Instead, he moves closer, and carefully reaches out to place a hand on her shoulder. “As you should,” he tells her. “But I swear, he will not come to harm with us.”

Her glare softens, but only slightly. “He’s my brother too,” Dean tells her, the words weighty in his mouth. “I will not let him down again.”

Finally, she nods and uncrosses her arms. Far from being irritated by her protectiveness over Sam, it only makes Dean admire her more. “You should come visit us as well, someday,” he offers without thinking. “If you wish.”

Castiel comes to stand beside him and smiles at Jo in encouragement. “We would be pleased to have you stay with us,” he adds.

“Me? In London?” Jo crinkles her nose in distaste. “I think not. Too many people, too much perfume.”

“A country lass to the core,” Castiel comments. “Very well. But should you ever change your mind--”

“I will remember your offer,” Jo says, dipping her head in acknowledgement. “It is kind of you to think of me.”

“Did you not consider that perhaps I am leaving to escape you?” Sam teases as he joins them, pulling lightly on Jo’s hair with his free hand. In his other, he carries a large bag, stuffed to the brim with his belongings. 

“You can never escape me,” Jo informs him, ducking under his arm and swatting away his hand. 

“Nor would I wish to,” Sam replies, pulling her into a tight embrace. “I’ll be home soon, Jo.”

It hurts less than it might have earlier, hearing Sam call this his home. Dean reminds himself to be grateful for what he has, and to remember that this is difficult for Sam. He waits patiently while Jo and Sam have a murmured conversation that ends with her punching him lightly on the arm, then stepping back.

Ellen is waiting for her turn to say her farewells, and Sam opens his mouth to speak, but no words emerge. Castiel lays a soft hand on Dean’s sleeve and they turn away to give the others a moment of privacy. 

“I’m ready,” Sam announces a few minutes later. He has a smile on his face, though it seems a bit strained. He hands his bag to the driver, and with one last wave, disappears inside. Castiel bows to Ellen and Jo and follows after him, but Dean hesitates.

“Thank you,” he says to Ellen. “Again. I’m sure we’ll see one another soon.”

“As am I,” Ellen replies. She steps forward and sweeps Dean into an embrace, and he’s far too startled to react at first. But she waits, and after a moment, he wraps his arms around her in return. “Be well, Dean.”

He can still feel the warmth of her hold as he climbs into the carriage and settles onto the seat beside Castiel and across from Sam. They begin to move, and Sam leans out the window to wave goodbye as the inn begins to fade from their sight.

“You’ll see them again soon,” Dean says, noting the faint sadness in Sam’s eyes. 

“I know,” Sam replies. He summons a small smile and looks over at Dean. “Besides, it will be pleasant not having to muck out the stables.”

“Should you start to miss it, I’m sure we could arrange something,” Castiel says gravely. Dean elbows him lightly, knowing Sam will likely not be able to read the teasing in his voice.

“He’s not serious,” he assures his brother. 

“I should hope not,” Sam laughs. 

“I expect you’ll be far too busy for such tasks,” Castiel says. “Dean will want to show you so many places. And we have a few friends who would be delighted to make your acquaintance, I’m sure.”

“Ought we throw you a ball?” Dean asks, giving Sam a sly look. “Throw you out onto the marriage market? Or is there a love you’ve left behind, pining in your absence?”

A tinge of pink creeps onto Sam’s cheeks, and Dean grins in triumph. Years may have passed, but he still knows how to tease his brother.

“No,” Sam croaks. “To either question.”

“Oh, very well,” Dean sighs. “But you know there will be questions raised regardless. The gossips will simply love you.”

“Why should they take an interest in me?” Sam protests. “I’m no one of import.”

“I apologize, Sam,” Castiel says with a sigh, “but I’m afraid any connection to me will make you someone of import in their eyes.”

“Of course,” Sam says, understanding dawning in his eyes. “Well, so long as you do not abandon me entirely to their mercy, I expect I shall survive the talk.”

“You get used to it,” Dean informs him. “Somewhat.”

Sam looks like he has a question he wishes to ask, but then he shakes his head. “I would like to meet your friends,” he says instead. “Will you tell me about them?”

Dean smiles, pleased by Sam’s interest in their lives, and launches into the tale of how he helped Celeste plan for her most recent ball. Castiel listens and occasionally offers an amusing aside, and they pass the rest of the journey to London in companionable chatter.

Dean hardly notices when they begin to approach the city, but Sam does. He leans out the window again, watching as they wind their way through the streets. When the carriage rolls to a halt, he turns back to Dean and Castiel with a look of surprise on his face.

“This is where you live?” he asks.

Castiel gives Dean a sidelong look, then nods. “Yes,” he says carefully. Dean can’t determine if Sam’s surprise is a positive or a negative reaction.

Sam lets out a low whistle. “I cannot say I imagined it would be quite like this,” he mutters. 

“Come,” Castiel says, opening the carriage door. “There is much more to see.”

Dean draws back slightly and places a hand on Sam’s arm. “Are you regretting your decision?” he asks, bracing himself for Sam’s answer.

“No, of course not,” Sam assures him. “I only--” He breaks off, laughing slightly. “It’s so absurd,” he says. “It hardly feels real.”

“I thought the same thing, once,” Dean says wryly. “But come along. I do think you’ll like many things about the house.”

Castiel is waiting for them at the top of the stairs, and Alfie hovers just inside the doorway. He offers Dean a bright smile, which fades slightly as he takes in the sight of Sam. “Welcome home, my lord,” he says to Dean. He is far too well-trained to ask about Sam’s identity, but Dean knows him well enough to see the question burning in his eyes.

“Hello, Alfie,” Dean says. “I’d like you to meet my brother, Sam.”

Alfie’s eyes go impossibly wide even as he makes a bow to Sam. “I’m very pleased to meet you,” he murmurs.

“Sam will be staying with us for some time,” Castiel says. “You may inform the rest of the staff, and see that a chamber is made ready for him.”

“Of course.” Alfie almost trips in his haste to flee to the servants’ quarters to spread the news, and Dean watches him go with a fond smile. 

“He seems enthusiastic,” Sam comments. 

“Very,” Dean agrees. “Now, would you like a tour?”

Sam nods eagerly, and the three of them set off through the house. Dean slips his hand into Castiel’s as they enter the parlour, and Castiel squeezes it lightly. It feels right, having Sam here with them. 

Perhaps, in time, it will feel right for Sam as well. Perhaps it will feel like it could be a home for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty much done with edits at this point, so I think starting next week I'll post two chapters per week so we can get this wrapped up!


	11. Chapter 11

“I thought we might begin the day with a tour of the park,” Dean says in between sips of his tea. “It’s beautiful, Sam, though quite different from where you’ve been living these past years.”

Sam nods, a small smile on his face. “That sounds pleasant.”

It isn’t always easy for Dean to read Sam’s expressions, altered as they are by his adult features, but he’s fairly certain that Sam’s smile is slightly strained. He exchanges a worried glance with Castiel and lowers his tone. “Unless there is something you would rather do?”

“No, the park is a fine idea,” Sam says. “Only--” He plucks at his sleeve. “I fear I am not fit for a public appearance.”

“I’m sure we can find something that will do for the time being,” Castiel offers. “And we can have a few things made to fit you as quickly as possible.”

“You are most generous,” Sam murmurs. 

Dean looks between the two of them and frowns, then pushes back his chair and gestures to Sam to join him. “Come,” he says, “let’s see what we can find.”

Castiel gives Dean an encouraging nod, but remains at the table, giving Sam and Dean a few moments of privacy. Dean leads his brother back up the stairs and directs him to wait in his chamber while Dean fetches a few coats for him to try on. Sam is taller than either he or Castiel, and broader in the shoulders, but he has not yet completely filled out, so there may be hope of something fitting reasonably well.

He brings a few coats and shirts for Sam to inspect and watches as he tries them on. “These are very fine,” Sam comments. “I fear I will look ridiculous in them.”

“You will not,” Dean assures him. “You may feel so at first, it’s true. But you’ll adjust in time.”

Sam’s mouth tightens, and he does not reply. But he adjusts the shoulders of the last coat, glances at himself in the mirror, and nods. “This will do,” he says.

Dean gives him a critical glance. “Not quite,” he says. He rings the bell by the side of the bed and Alfie appears almost instantaneously.

“Is there something I might assist you with, my lord?” he asks.

“Yes,” Dean replies, a grin on his face. “The matter of Sam’s hair.”

Sam’s hands fly to his head, a panicked expression on his face. “What about my hair?”

“Yes, I see your point,” Alfie says, nodding slowly. He gives Dean a wink. “The shears, then?”

Sam’s horror is clear, and Dean begins to laugh, his shoulders shaking with mirth as understanding finally dawns on Sam’s face. “Fear not,” Dean manages through his laughter, “we have no such devious plan in mind.”

Alfie leaves the room and returns moments later with a simple strip of leather, holding it up for Sam’s inspection. “If you’ll permit me?”

“Very well,” Sam sighs. 

With deft fingers, Alfie combs Sam’s hair back away from his face and secures it in a neat queue at the back of his neck. “There we are,” Alfie says, stepping back with a satisfied nod. “Lordly indeed.”

“I’m no lord,” Sam protests.

“No,” Dean agrees, “but if you were concerned about looking the part, you have nothing to fear now. Except the gossips, of course.”

“You keep mentioning these gossips. Surely they can’t be that bad?” 

“Oh, they can,” Dean assures him. “But fear not. I’ll protect you.”

Sam sighs heavily and looks at himself in the mirror one last time. Dean smiles and gives him a playful dig with his elbow. “Don’t look so morose,” he chides. “It’s a beautiful day.”

“It is that,” Sam concedes. “Very well. Take me to your park and its infamous gossips.”

Castiel has the carriage ready for them, and he nods approvingly at Sam’s change of outfit. “Are we ready, then?”

“Long past,” Dean says as he climbs up into the carriage. “We were delayed by the matter of Sam’s hair.”

Sam sticks his tongue out at him, then instantly looks embarrassed for having resorted to such a juvenile gesture. But it warms something deep in Dean’s heart, that instinctive reaction to brotherly teasing, an echo of their younger days that gives him renewed hope for the relationship they are building in the present. 

“You threatened to cut it, didn’t you?” Castiel asks shrewdly, shaking his head in dismay.

“Only for a moment,” Dean protests.

“A terrifying moment,” Sam corrects. “One for which you will be repaid in kind at some later date.”

“I look forward to your attempt,” Dean says, supremely undisturbed. “If it goes anything like our wrestling match, I am assured of victory in this war of pranks.”

“Well, you’ll likely have help,” Sam says, turning to look at Castiel. “An unfair advantage.”

“Oh, no,” Castiel insists, holding up his hands in denial. “I will not involve myself in this contest. I already fear the consequences of being an innocent bystander. No, I shall remain neutral.”

“Very well.” Sam turns back to Dean with a grin. “Then let the games begin.”

Dean’s mind is already whirling with possibilities. Nothing that would cause Sam any actual harm, nor any true distress, but only fleeting annoyance and irritation. He chuckles to himself as Sam scowls at him from across the seat, no doubt plotting his own countermove. 

Soon enough, they pass through the gates of the park, and Sam’s curiosity begins to outweigh whatever scheme he was planning before. He looks out the window with interest as Castiel points out several features of interest, and Dean watches fondly, recalling when Castiel did much the same thing for him. 

The mild weather has encouraged many others to pass their morning in the park as well, so the carriage slows as they make their way along the lane. This has the advantage of giving Sam more time to take in the sights, and as they progress, Dean watches some of the tension leak from his shoulders. For all that he knows Sam is happy to have been reunited with him, Dean also knows it cannot be easy on him to be away from Ellen and Jo for the first time in years. 

Given the way he is practically hanging out the carriage window, it is little surprise that Sam attracts some attention from the others taking a tour through the park. “You ought to wave back,” Dean instructs him. “It’s only polite.”

“I don’t know them,” Sam says with a frown. “And they certainly do not know me.”

“Oh, but they will soon,” Castiel says, looking over from the other side of the carriage. “And they do know me, and my vehicle. We do not wish to snub anyone.”

Dutifully, Sam lifts a hand in acknowledgment of the next carriage that rolls past them, glancing over at Dean as though to check he’s done it correctly. Dean gives him an approving nod. “Perfect,” he declares. 

“They’re stopping,” Sam says, a slight frown marring his face. “Why are they stopping?”

Pushing him aside slightly to get a better view, Dean smiles. “Of course,” he mutters to himself. “Castiel, it’s Celeste!”

“Your friend Celeste?” Sam asks, shrinking back into the shadowed interior of the carriage. “Is she one of your gossips?”

“In some ways, but more than that, she is a dear friend,” Castiel replies, giving Sam’s shoulder a brief squeeze of encouragement. “If you do not wish to meet her now, we can delay her, but she is rather persistent.”

“I think you will get along well,” Dean says, pausing with his hand on the carriage door. “She has been a great source of support as we sought to find you.”

“Then I owe her my thanks,” Sam says with a decisive nod. He smooths a hand over his hair-- a nervous gesture, Dean thinks-- and follows Dean out of the carriage.

“Well met, my lords!” Celeste exclaims as she nearly tumbles down from her carriage, her bright hair glinting in the sun. “How was your excursion to the country?”

“Most productive,” Dean replies, pressing a brief kiss to her hand. She opens her mouth to say something further, but stops at the sight of Sam. Her bright eyes dart back and forth between he and Dean, and her mouth opens even wider.

“Dean,” she breathes, “is this--”

“My brother,” he replies, still awed to hear himself say the words aloud. “Celeste, may I introduce my brother, Sam? Sam, Lady Celeste Middleton.”

Sam makes a somewhat stiff bow, and Celeste gives a slight bob of a curtsey in reply, though Dean can tell she’s itching to throw herself at him in an embrace, propriety be damned. He smiles to himself and places a gentle hand on her shoulder to hold her back. 

“But how did you ever--” she says, then shakes her head. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

“Extraordinary circumstance,” Sam says in reply to her unspoken question. “I have been living quite near to Lord Castiel’s country estate for the past few years. And Fortune smiled upon us and brought us together.”

“Extraordinary indeed,” Celeste says, eyes still wide. She looks over at Castiel as he comes around from the other side of the carriage to join them. “And to think, so close to your estate, this whole time!”

“Perhaps some things are just meant to be,” Castiel says, sneaking a small smile at Dean, who flushes at the tenderness in his gaze.

“You must come to dinner,” Celeste declares, “all of you. I wish to hear the tale in more detail than can be given here. We’ll make a party of it.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Sam stiffen slightly, and he turns aside to converse with him in hushed tones. “We do not have to go,” he says. “Celeste is a friend, but you do not owe her your story, if you do not wish to tell it.”

“I have nothing to be ashamed of,” Sam replies. “I do not mind spending an evening with your friends. Only--” he hesitates, looking terribly young-- “might we make it a small party?”

Dean nods, knowing all too well how overwhelming large gatherings can be, particularly among the nobility. “My lady,” he says quietly, interrupting Celeste and Castiel’s conversation, “we would be delighted to join you for dinner. But perhaps we might keep the other guests to a minimum?”

“Oh,” she says, glancing quickly between Sam and Dean. “Of course. I did not mean to presume--”

“It’s quite alright,” Sam tells her gently. “It is only my first full day in London, however, and I thought it might be best if I ease into the way of life here.”

“Naturally,” Celeste says with a nod. “I forget, sometimes, that not everyone prefers my completely immersive methods. My apologies.”

“Your enthusiasm is certainly inspiring,” Sam tells her with a hint of a smile. “Perhaps I will learn to embrace it, in time.”

“Inspiring?” Celeste laughs. “My wife tells me it is exhausting, rather.”

“She sounds to be a wise woman,” Sam says gravely. “I look forward to meeting her.”

“Tonight, then,” Celeste says with a firm nod. “I shall return home to begin preparations at once.”

“Until tonight,” Castiel says, embracing her fondly. She gives one last wave to Sam and Dean, and then disappears back inside her carriage.

“Well,” Dean says, staring after her, “that is Celeste.”

“Quite the force of nature, isn’t she?” Sam says wryly. “Especially for one so small.”

“Indeed,” Castiel laughs. “But she has been a dear friend to me for many years.”

“I understand why.” Fortunately, Sam seems mostly amused at the turn of events. “It appears we have a dinner to attend tonight.”

“And how shall we pass the rest of the day, then?” Castiel asks, looking at Sam and Dean in turn. “I am at my leisure, so the choice is yours.”

Sam sneaks a glance at Dean, who merely shrugs in response. After all, this is Sam’s visit to London. He is quite content to do as his brother desires. 

“I would like to see the rest of the park,” Sam begins, voice hesitant, “but after that, perhaps a quiet afternoon would be best.”

“Of course,” Castiel replies. He gives Sam a sympathetic smile. “We do not wish to overwhelm you on your first full day here.”

Sam nods, a touch sheepish. “It is indeed a lot to take in,” he says. “I expect I shall adjust in time.”

“In my experience,” Castiel says, “one’s enjoyment of all of London’s social scenes depends greatly on the company one keeps.”

Sam turns back to send a sly grin in Dean’s direction. “I suppose I am at a disadvantage, then,” he jokes. “But you, my lord, will make it more bearable.”

They both laugh, and Dean cannot find it in himself to be hurt by their teasing. It brings him great joy to see Sam and Castiel interacting like this, to see them beginning to develop a friendship of their own. Even if it is based on shared mockery of him.

The rest of their morning passes pleasantly, and soon enough they return to the house to refresh themselves. Sam begs a few hours to himself, and with a small wave, he climbs the stairs up towards his chamber.

“Do you think he’s alright?” Dean asks once he’s out of earshot. 

“I’m sure he is,” Castiel responds. “Likely nervous about tonight, but we cannot fault him for that.”

“No,” Dean agrees. “At least he will be spared the spectacle of some larger, grander event.”

“Like your first introduction to London society?” Castiel says, smiling at the memory.

“Precisely. I was so nervous, I thought I might faint.”

It’s a clear sign of their comfort with one another that Dean can joke like this now. He was nervous, the first time he and Castiel met, but he was facing something much more terrifying than mere societal expectations: the very course of his destiny depended on his performance that night.

Castiel gives him a considering look. “What would you tell yourself,” he asks as he and Dean step into the parlour, “if you could speak to your past self on that day?”

Dean settles into his favourite chair and reaches for Castiel’s hand, twining their fingers together. “I would tell him that you are the most handsome man in London,” he teases, “so he would be prepared to be left breathless at his first glimpse of you from across that ballroom.”

Castiel flushes pink from his cheeks to the tips of his ears and ducks his head in an attempt to hide his smile. “You exaggerate,” he mumbles.

“I do not,” Dean declares. He uses his free hand to tilt Castiel’s face up, smiling at him. “I would also tell him that though things might seem hopeless, it would all be worth it in the end. That he-- I -- would find happiness beyond my wildest imagining. With you by my side.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, slowly shaking his head from side to side, “you--”

Dean cuts him off with a kiss. Castiel makes a small noise of surprise but returns his embrace with his usual passion. Before long, they are entwined in the same chair, Castiel perched precariously above Dean as their hands roam over each other’s bodies. 

One of Dean’s hands slips beneath the hem of Castiel’s shirt, running up the muscled length of his back, and Castiel arches into the touch even as he pulls away to give Dean a reproachful look. 

“If Sam should return…” he says.

“I care not,” Dean replies. There is a reckless itch running through his body, a strange desperation he cannot explain, as though he simply must touch Castiel now or risk combustion.

“I’ve missed this, the past few days,” Castiel murmurs, pressing a kiss to the corner of Dean’s jaw.

Perhaps there is an explanation, after all. A few days of chaste sleep, conscious of Sam’s presence and the emotional toll of that reunion, and now Dean and Castiel are simply overcome with their need for one another. 

Dean tips his head back and laughs as Castiel slides off his lap and onto the ground before him, a familiar glint in his eyes. At Dean’s nod, he slowly begins to unfasten his breeches, every move of his hands calculated to torture Dean in the most pleasurable way. And when Castiel finally takes Dean into his mouth, Dean closes his eyes on a long, shuddering exhale and buries his hands in Castiel’s hair, luxuriating in the sensations that course through his entire body.

There is no word for this other than worship. The way Castiel uses his lips and tongue and his utterly intimate knowledge of Dean’s body to ensure his pleasure is at its highest level. He pulls away, only for a moment, to say Dean’s name, his voice soft but commanding all the same.

“Look at me,” he says. “Watch.”

With another shudder, Dean does as instructed. Castiel smiles at him in satisfaction, then lowers his head and returns to his task. Watching him like this, the pure adoration in his eyes as he looks up at Dean, breaks whatever resolve Dean might have had to at least attempt to remain quiet. A moan slips past his lips and echoes loudly in the room, but Dean no longer cares, too lost in the warmth of Castiel’s talented mouth. 

“You spoil me,” he says with a breathless laugh as Castiel deliberately runs his tongue down the underside of Dean’s shaft. “What about you, my lord?”

“After,” Castiel says briefly, unwilling to be distracted for long. “Let me give you this, now.”

It isn’t long before Dean’s hips are shifting restlessly on the chair as he bucks forward, unable to restrain himself. Castiel’s hands are braced on his thighs, caressing them lightly, and as he stares down into those beautiful blue eyes, Dean’s climax takes him, inevitable as the tides. 

“Come here,” he pleads, tugging lightly at Castiel’s hair. “I need--”

Castiel rises back to meet him, and with his usual intuition, seals their mouths together in a passionate kiss. Dean can taste himself on Castiel’s lips and it only makes him melt further into the embrace, intoxicated by the intimacy of it all.

But he has neglected Castiel’s pleasure for too long. Slipping his hand down between their bodies, he finds Castiel’s straining erection and wraps his hand around it, drawing him out of his breeches. He’s close already, Dean knows, judging by the way his breathing hitches as his lips lose contact with Dean’s. 

Truly, Castiel is the most generous of men. Bringing pleasure to Dean only increases his own, leaving him flushed and hard, panting hotly against Dean’s neck as Dean strokes him, layering kisses over the exposed skin of his collarbone where his shirt has fallen aside.

“Let go, my lord,” Dean whispers. “My Castiel.”

The groan that Castiel emits is unearthly, and he slumps forward into Dean’s embrace as he spills over his hand. With his other hand, Dean lightly strokes his back, murmuring nonsense into his ear until he has recovered enough to sit up and kiss Dean once more.

“We’ve made a mess of ourselves,” Castiel says ruefully, looking down at their rumpled clothing and the evidence of his release of Dean’s hand.

“We have to change for dinner regardless,” Dean points out with a shrug. He pulls the handkerchief out of Castiel’s discarded jacket and wipes his hand with it. “Really, it was quite a sensible time for a tryst.”

Castiel rolls his eyes fondly and slowly stands, attempting to put himself back in order. Dean, however, cares not. There is no one in the house who does not know the nature of their relationship, and thanks to his unconventional past, he has no shame about sexual activity between consenting partners.

“Leave it,” he tells Castiel. “We’ll go bathe straightaway.”

Castiel makes a face, his well-bred respectability at odds with his practicality, and allows Dean to lead him out into the hall and towards the stairs. 

It’s there that they encounter Alfie, who gives them a little bow and pointedly ignores their disheveled state. “Your brother is in the library,” he says to Dean. “He came to seek you earlier, but I warned him that you were....otherwise occupied.”

Castiel immediately flushes at the acknowledgement of how he and Dean spent the last half hour, but Dean fights back laughter, imagining the look on his brother’s face as Alfie intercepted him. “We shall join him there shortly,” Dean says, “after we bathe.”

“Of course, my lords,” Alfie replies. Castiel is still avoiding his gaze, but Dean gives him a wink, and he sees an answering glimmer in Alfie’s eyes as he trots off to prepare their bath.

“How embarrassing,” Castiel murmurs, still quite pink in the cheeks. “Your poor brother.”

Dean laughs and kisses him quickly, charmed by his bashfulness. “He’ll recover,” he says breezily. “He’ll have to. There is no way I would be able to keep my hands off you, even to spare his delicate sensibilities.”

Castiel does not appear entirely placated, but by the time they bathe and change and join Sam in the library, he has regained his composure. 

“Are you feeling more prepared for an evening of socialization?” he asks Sam. When they entered, he looked entirely at ease, sprawled across the divan, but he sits up now, clasping his hands before him and hunching slightly in his seat.

“Quite so,” Sam replies, but Dean notices that he will not meet Castiel’s eyes.

“Might you give us a moment?” Dean asks quietly. “I believe I need to speak with Sam alone.”

Castiel nods and squeezes Dean’s hand lightly before leaving the room, giving him one encouraging look over his shoulder as he closes the door behind him.

Sam puts aside his book and gives Dean a concerned look. “Have I offended him?” he asks, eyes wide. “That was not my intent.”

“No,” Dean assures him, dropping into a chair beside him. “We simply feared we might have offended you, and I thought we ought to discuss it.”

Understanding dawns on Sam’s face, and he flushes slightly. “I am not offended,” he says.

“Uncomfortable, then?” It’s quite clear to Dean that Sam is experiencing some sort of reaction to the evidence of Dean and Castiel’s relationship. He only hopes it is not disgust. 

Sam bites his lip, looking more like the boy in Dean’s memories than the young man he is now. He runs a hand through his hair, and finally, in a quiet voice, he says, “It is difficult, when I am reminded of how long we have been apart.”

Dean frowns at him, unsure what that has to do with he and Castiel and their private moments.

Sam sighs and continues. “You have this life now,” he says, gesturing at the room around them, “and you have Castiel, and… we’ve grown up, Dean. Without one another.”

_I haven’t always had this life_ , Dean wishes to say, but he will not divert the conversation with his own history. Instead, he says, “Are you saying it’s too late for us?”

“No!” Sam exclaims immediately. “No, of course not. Only that it is strange, to feel that I know you best of anyone in the world, and yet not know you at all.”

It makes sense, hearing it put so bluntly. And it explains Sam’s awkwardness perfectly, not quite knowing how to make sense of something he never had the chance to watch grow. 

Dean reaches out and grasps Sam’s shoulder, giving him a serious look. “I understand,” he says solemnly. “If it would help, I could tell you in what exact ways we were occupied when Alfie warned you not to disturb us.”

Sam makes a disgusted face and brushes Dean’s hand off his shoulder. “No, thank you,” he says with a shudder. “That will not be necessary.”

Unrepentant, Dean grins at him. “Are you certain? There is so much I could tell you--”

Clamping his hands over his ears, Sam gives Dean a most petulant glare. “I should never have said you had grown up,” he mutters. “It’s quite clear that you have not.”

“Perhaps not,” Dean agrees cheerfully. “But come. We can both pretend to be civilized adults for the evening. Celeste would expect nothing less.”

“Must I tie my hair back again?” Sam asks mournfully. 

“Only for a while,” Dean assures him. “After a few glasses of sherry, Celeste will care not a whit for propriety.”

“Excellent,” Sam declares. “Then perhaps it shall be an enjoyable evening after all.”


	12. Chapter 12

Sam smoothes a hand over his hair as they exit the carriage, and Dean reaches out to pat him on the shoulder. “You look fine,” he assures him. 

“Very fine indeed,” Castiel agrees. He strides confidently up the steps of Celeste’s residence with the ease of long familiarity, Sam and Dean trailing slightly behind.

Before Castiel can even raise a hand to knock, the doors are thrown wide open and Celeste’s beaming face appears. “You’re here!” she exclaims, grabbing Castiel by the wrist and practically dragging him into the house. “We’ve been waiting with great impatience, my lords.”

Dean bites back a grin at her usual enthusiasm. “We are precisely on time,” he points out. 

“Yes, well, everyone else was early,” Celeste says with a shrug. “Come along.”

Despite her eagerness, she drops back to greet Sam personally, offering her hand to him and leaning up on her toes to say something too quietly for Dean to overhear. Whatever she says, it makes Sam smile, the set of his shoulders loosening somewhat, and Dean is grateful for that. 

Celeste leads them into the dining room, and all the guests gathered at the long table turn towards them expectantly as they enter. “Our guests of honour have arrived!” she announces with a bright smile.

From her seat at the head of the table, Gilda rises and comes to join them, offering her hand for Castiel to bow over. “Well met, my lords,” she says, the picture of a gracious hostess. She then turns to Sam and smiles gently at him. “And you must be Sam.”

Sam bows carefully. “Lady Gilda. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Thank you for inviting me to your home tonight.”

“Such pretty manners,” Gilda says approvingly. “Castiel, you’ve taught him well. Now, come. Allow me to introduce you to our other friends.”

At her words, Dean finally looks around the room and notes who else is assembled there. It is a small gathering, just as Celeste promised. Apart from their hosts and his group, there are only three others guests: Balthazar, who gives a cheery little wave, Lord Joshua, and a dark-haired young lady Dean does not recognize.

“I believe you know everyone,” Celeste says, linking arms with both Dean and Castiel, “apart from Miss Blake.”

She leads them to the other side of the room, the dark-haired young woman rising to her feet with a smile on her face as she extends her hand towards them. “Miss Blake’s father deals in art and antiquities,” Celeste explains, “and has been a friend to my wife for some time. We thought she might also appreciate the chance to make some new friends here in London.”

“Any friend of Celeste and Gilda’s is a friend of ours,” Castiel says graciously. “I am glad to meet you, Miss Blake.”

“Then you must call me Sarah,” she replies, her smile widening.

Dean likes her manner, her friendliness and lack of pretension. “Then I am Dean,” he says, making a small bow. “And also pleased to meet you.”

Before they can further the conversation, Gilda rings a small bell, calling them to their seats. Dean notes that Sam has been placed beside Miss Blake and raises an eyebrow at Celeste, who gives him a look of wide-eyed innocence. 

“I think our dear Celeste may be attempting to play matchmaker,” he whispers into Castiel’s ear. 

Castiel looks over at Sam and Sarah, who are already engrossed in conversation, and laughs softly. “I think you may be correct.”

Before the dishes of food begin to arrive, Balthazar leans across the table and meets Dean’s eyes, looking uncharacteristically serious. “I hope it’s alright with you that I’m here,” he says. “Celeste invited me before telling me the reason for this little gathering, and I have no wish to interfere with the happiness you must surely be feeling at being reunited with your brother.”

Dean blinks at him for a moment, confused, before he realizes that neither he nor Castiel have had the chance to speak to Balthazar since their trip to the country, or indeed since that awful night that they nearly lost their faith in one another. The poor man must still be operating under the assumption that Dean dislikes him for his connection to Castiel.

“I’m happy you’re here,” he tells Balthazar now. “Truly. Perhaps later, we might have a word alone?”

Balthazar casts a surprised look at Castiel, who nods encouragingly, and then smiles at Dean. “I should like that very much,” he says. 

From beside him, Joshua gives them an inquisitive look. “Oh to be young again,” he says with a sigh. “Such dramatics.”

Castiel laughs, smiling fondly at him. “Perhaps you might entertain us with tales of your own youth, my lord,” he suggests. “Surely there are dramatics to be found there.”

“You have no idea,” Joshua says, winking at them. “But such things are better left in my memories.”

Balthazar pouts at him. “You’ll change your tune after a few glasses of wine,” he says. “Mark my words.”

“I will take that bet,” Gilda comments. “Lord Joshua is a man of his word, and he guards his secrets closely. Even you will not be able to charm them from him, my lord.”

“Perhaps I might be able to,” Sam chimes in. “A new approach might be just what is needed in this situation.”

Joshua taps his chin thoughtfully. “I’ll have to keep an eye on you,” he declares. “You do seem the type to inspire confidence.”

Sam smiles, his dimples showing. “It is a particular talent of mine.”

Dean beams at him, pleased to see him holding his own in the conversation. His earlier nervousness seems to have dissipated, and judging by the way Sarah’s eyes are shining as she looks at him, Sam has left a favourable impression on her already. 

“I think this is good for him,” Castiel comments, leaning over to speak into Dean’s ear. 

“As do I,” Dean replies, smiling up at him. “We are fortunate in our friends, are we not?”

“We are indeed,” Castiel agrees.

“And speaking of secrets!” Celeste interrupts, giving them a mock-stern look. “What are the two of you whispering about over there?”

“Only how lovely you look tonight,” Castiel replies smoothly.

“Liar,” she says fondly. “You know all compliments are to be delivered loudly and publicly, that I might bask in them properly.”

“Then may I say how lovely you look tonight, Lady Celeste?” Sam says, giving her a charming smile. “All of you ladies, in fact.”

“Now that is how it ought to be done,” Gilda remarks. “You may stay, Sam. Send your brother and Castiel away, we’ve no use for them anymore.”

Sam throws a triumphant grin in Dean’s direction. “How easily you are replaced,” he says with mock sympathy.

“Does that not serve as a warning that you too might be replaced in time?” Dean shoots back.

Celeste laughs, throwing back her head. “Oh, the squabbles of siblings,” she says with a sigh. “Tell me, my friends, have you always been this competitive?”

“You should have seen them wrestling the other day,” Castiel offers, shaking his head is dismay. “I thought it would go on for ages before a victor was declared.”

“It was you, wasn’t it,” Balthazar asks, leaning towards Dean. “You would have demanded a rematch by now if your brother had bested you.”

Dean smirks at him, pleased that his victory is so obvious. “It was,” he says. 

“For now,” Sam interjects. “We will have that rematch soon enough.”

“Please ensure we all are invited to witness it,” Celeste says, her eyes twinkling. “We would enjoy the chance to make sport of you both. Perhaps even place wagers.” She turns her mischievous gaze to Sarah. “Who would you gamble on, Miss Blake?”

Sarah’s cheeks flush, but she holds her head high as she replies. “I cannot yet say. My acquaintance with the competitors in question has been far too brief.”

“Most diplomatic,” Joshua says, giving her an approving nod. “You will go far with such tact, my dear.”

“Yes, we’re all quite proud of our Miss Blake already,” Gilda says, giving her friend a warm smile. “Her father has been preparing her to inherit his business someday soon.”

“That’s wonderful,” Sam says earnestly, turning his full attention to Sarah. “Will you tell me more about it?”

Dean props his hand on his chin and observes the two of them with growing amusement as their conversation flows faster, gradually leaving the others behind. They are utterly absorbed in one another, and it brings an entirely new sort of feeling to his chest. 

Under the table, Castiel’s hand finds his and gives it a light squeeze. “I’m glad to be here with you,” Castiel murmurs. “With all of you.”

Looking around the room, Dean cannot help but agree. How lucky he is, to have all these people in his life. Some he has known for years, some for months, some for mere hours, and yet he is so terribly fond of all of them, he feels his heart might burst from it. 

“Shall we retire to the parlour?” Celeste asks as they finish their meals, rising smoothly from her seat. “I’ll have dessert sent in shortly.”

“I fear I must take my leave,” Lord Joshua answers. “It was kind of you to include me, Celeste my dear, but this old man needs his bed.”

Celeste pouts, but takes Joshua’s arm to escort him out as the others call out their goodnights. Gilda takes them through to their parlour, but before they enter, Dean stops Balthazar with a light hand on his elbow.

“Might we have that word now, my lord?” he asks.

Balthazar’s eyes widen, but he nods, allowing the others to pass them by. Castiel pauses, looking between the two of them, but Dean just nods at him and makes a shooing gesture with his hands. Castiel shrugs and gently shuts the parlour door behind him, leaving Dean and Balthazar alone.

“Are you going to hit me?” Balthazar asks, sounding not at all bothered by the prospect. “If so, I would appreciate a warning, only if so that I might remove my cravat first. I’m rather fond of it, and would hate to see it ruined with my own blood.”

Dean does not answer, and when he steps forward, Balthazar flinches slightly but holds his ground. Dean reaches out one hand, but instead of using it to strike Balthazar, he holds it out in the space between them.

“I apologize, my lord,” he says. “I have been unfair, and unkind, and unpleasant to you in every possible way.”

Balthazar’s eyes widen in surprise, and for once, he is speechless. After a long pause, he grips Dean’s hand in both of his own. “My dear lad,” he says, voice thick with emotion, “whatever has prompted this display?”

Dean shrugs. “A number of important conversations, and some time to reflect on them,” he says. “I blamed you for problems that were my own, and I am sorry for it.”

“It is forgotten,” Balthazar assures him. It seems too easy, but there is no hesitation in Balthazar’s voice. It only serves to increase Dean’s guilt over the way he has treated him. But if Balthazar is willing to put this matter behind them--

“Then might we be friends?” Dean asks tentatively. 

“Not until you come visit me in Paris,” Balthazar teases, slinging an arm around Dean’s shoulders and guiding him into the parlour. Dean laughs, relaxing in the face of Balthazar’s easy acceptance of his apology. “And you must bring your brother!” he continues as they enter the room.

“Bring me where?” Sam asks, looking up from his conversation. 

“To Paris!” Balthazar exclaims. “All of you. I shan’t remain here in this dreary city forever, despite your good company.”

“Paris is wonderful,” Sarah says, smiling at him. “I have visited with my father on numerous occasions.”

“Then it is a shame we have not encountered one another until now,” Balthazar replies. “You must promise me to pay me a call on your next visit.”

“I shall,” she says. “It would be wonderful to see the city through the eyes of someone who knows it so well.”

“And if you are there, we might have more power to persuade young Samuel here to visit as well,” Balthazar remarks, giving Sam a sly look. 

Celeste bites her lip to stifle her giggles, but Dean has no such restraint. He laughs heartily at the flush on Sam’s cheeks and raises his glass of wine in a toast. “To Paris,” he calls. 

“To Paris!” the others echo, and as they all take a sip from their wine, Dean’s eyes meet Castiel’s across the room. He winks, and Castiel smiles, and the rest of the evening passes in high spirits and witty conversation, the talk flowing as freely as the wine.

When it finally comes time for them to say their goodnights, Dean is reluctant to leave. But he has caught Gilda yawning discreetly a few times, though she remains as gracious as ever, and he has no desire to impose on their hosts any longer. “I believe we ought to take our leave,” he whispers in Castiel’s ear. “Lady Gilda looks as though she might fall asleep in her chair.”

Castiel nods and catches Celeste’s eye. “Sadly, I think this magical night must come to an end,” he says. 

Balthazar looks up, mock-outraged at the suggestion, but then a yawn issues from his mouth and he laughs. “Perhaps you are correct,” he admits.

On the other side of the room, Sam and Sarah are still engaged in conversation, their heads tilted towards one another. Dean cannot see their faces, but he recognizes the way they have gravitated together, the way the rest of the room seems to have fallen completely from their attention. He almost wishes he could let them linger in this moment.

But there will be other nights. “Sam,” he calls softly. “We must depart.”

There’s only a slight frown on Sam’s face as he looks up, but he sighs and nods, then gallantly offers a hand to help Sarah rise to her feet. Dean is too far away to hear their murmured farewells, but judging by the colour in Sarah’s cheeks, they were well-spoken indeed. 

“Do you require an escort home, Miss Blake?” Balthazar asks solicitously. 

“Not from a bachelor such as yourself,” Gilda chides gently. “And no, Miss Blake is staying with us this evening.”

“Excellent,” Balthazar replies. “Then we’re all taken care of. It was a fine evening, my friends. Thank you for allowing me to share in it.” He gives a little wink to Dean at the end of his speech, and Dean smiles back at him. 

“You’ve worked it all out, then?” Castiel asks quietly, correctly interpreting their exchange.

“We have,” Dean replies. “I’m sorry it took so long.”

Castiel raises Dean’s hand to his lips and presses a light kiss to it. “I am happy to hear it.”

Celeste comes to join them after saying her farewells to Balthazar. “Was my hastily-assembled party a success, my lords?”

“It was indeed,” Dean assures her. “Thank you for organizing it, and so quickly.”

She grins at him and turns to look at Sam as he makes his way towards them. “And do you agree, Sam?”

“I do,” he says. There’s a somewhat dazed look in his eyes, and his smile seems permanently etched onto his features. “I had a wonderful evening.”

The teasing leaves Celeste’s tone, and she gives him a genuinely warm smile. “I hope we shall see more of you in the future, Sam,” she tells him.

Gilda comes to join them, slipping her arm through Celeste’s and nodding her agreement. “You will always be welcome here,” she adds.

“Thank you,” Sam says, ducking his head. “You have been nothing but kind to me, and I appreciate it more than words can express.”

“Until the next time, then,” Castiel says, embracing Celeste and then Gilda in turn.

They wave a final farewell, and then pass the brief carriage ride back to Castiel’s house in companionable silence, all three of them with faint smiles on their faces. A successful evening indeed, Dean thinks. 

Despite their tiredness, Dean does not wish the night to end. So once they arrive at home, they sit in the parlour with their brandy, each curled comfortably in an armchair. “So,” Dean says after few minutes of quiet, “perhaps it ought to be our turn to host a dinner party next.”

“I would like that,” Castiel says, “so long as the guest list is of a similar size to tonight’s.”

“You do not wish to invite all of London?” Dean jokes. “But my lord, how will we ever establish ourselves as hosts if the grand dames of society do not attend?”

“I’m sure we shall manage,” Castiel replies, rolling his eyes. 

“Is there anyone you think we ought to include, Sam?” Dean asks, raising an eyebrow at his brother. “Your Miss Blake, perhaps?”

Sam goes red, and Dean grins, enjoying the opportunity to tease his brother about nurturing a tendre for their new acquaintance. “She is not mine,” Sam says.

“But you wish her to be?” Dean presses.

He only meant to tease Sam, but something dims in his brother’s eyes at his words, and Dean regrets them immediately. “My wishes do not matter, in this regard,” Sam says, turning his face away. “There is no possibility of a future for the two of us.”

“Why do you say that?” Castiel asks gently. “It is true that I only met the young lady in question this evening, but I think it was quite clear from anyone observing the two of you that she found you quite charming, Sam.”

“Charm is well and good,” Sam says, his jaw tense, “but it does not supersede rank and position.”

Dean and Castiel exchange concerned looks. How quickly the smile that has graced Sam’s face since meeting Miss Blake has disappeared. Dean clears his throat and then says, “You truly think Miss Blake would care about such things?”

“No,” Sam admits with a sigh, “but I imagine her father might, among others.”

It is tempting to wave aside his concerns, to offer whole-hearted support and encouragement, but there is an element of truth to Sam’s worries. 

“It is too early to let your doubts win,” Castiel says, giving Sam a smile. “You cannot predict what will happen.” His gaze flicks quickly to Dean, who knows he is thinking of the unlikely circumstances of their own relationship. It makes Dean hide a private smile at that core of stubborn romanticism that Castiel carries.

But Sam shakes his head, his eyes dark and clouded. “Better that I forget about her now,” he says, rising to his feet and pacing around the room. “I will never be enough for her.”

Dean does not like the defeat in his voice. “You are not your station,” he says firmly. “I would never have guessed I might live like this one day, and yet here I am. Who can say where you might find yourself, Sam?”

“I’m not like you, Dean, though we started our lives in the same manner. I have not spent the last years living in luxury, pampered and protected like some sort of pet,” Sam exclaims. “Or indeed, some sort of wh--”

Dean flinches back, knowing exactly what Sam had been about to say, but Castiel is the one who speaks.“Get out,” he says, his voice colder than Dean has ever heard it. The expression on his face is thunderous as he stands, body tense, and Sam takes a step back, eyes wide and hands held before him in a pleading gesture.

“I didn’t--”

Castiel looks ready to challenge him a duel, or perhaps just hit him now and be done with it. But in the shocked silence that falls between the three of them, Dean merely begins to laugh, a harsh, hollow sound.

Until this moment, he had forgotten that he has not yet come clean to Sam about exactly how he spent the years they were apart. Sam has no idea of the truth of what he almost said, the truth about Dean. But he also has no idea about the truth of Dean and Castiel’s relationship, that much is clear. Pampered and protected, yes, but also loved and cared for, a mutually respectful partnership Dean considers himself to be blessed to find himself in.

So he turns to Castiel and places one hand on his arm, restraining him. “It’s alright,” he says. 

“It is not,” Castiel says darkly, still glaring at Sam.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says stiffly, “but I believe I am missing some layer of this conversation.” 

“You are missing quite a bit,” Dean snaps, then sighs. “Though that is entirely my fault.”

“It is not your fault,” Castiel argues. “Dean, you cannot excuse his behaviour simply because he does not know the entire truth. I will not have him disrespect you in our own home.”

“Your home?” Sam repeats, one eyebrow arched. “As in yours and Dean’s?”

Castiel gives him an irritated glance, most of his attention still on Dean. “What of it?”

Sam shakes his head slowly, looking between Dean and Castiel as though seeing them for the first time. “I thought--”

“You thought Castiel was nothing more than another rich man collecting pretty things, and I another pretty thing for him to own,” Dean says wearily, and judging by the way Sam bites his lip and avoids Dean’s gaze, he knows he is correct. “You think I’ve been here, living a life of luxury in exchange for warming Castiel’s bed, for the past six years.”

“If you haven’t…” Sam says, swallowing roughly, “then….what happened to you, Dean?”

“You need not tell him,” Castiel says, stepping back and in front of Dean. “I’m still tempted to throw him out onto the street.”

“No,” Dean says, shaking his head. “We should have had this conversation days ago.”

But they didn’t, because Dean was too afraid of this moment. His instinct has always been to protect Sam, to keep him safe from harm, and now that they have been reunited, he had no wish to burden him with the knowledge of how he kept himself alive during their years apart.

It’s more than that, though. If he is being honest with himself, uncomfortably so, Dean knows he has dreaded telling Sam the truth because he has dreaded his reaction. His inevitable judgment, his anticipated disgust. But he will not allow Sam to believe that what he and Castiel have is anything less than good and right and real, not any longer.

“You called me a whore,” he says, his voice even, ignoring the way both Castiel and Sam flinch at the word. “And there is truth in it, though not as much as you think.”

“Dean--” Castiel says, but Dean holds up a hand to stop him. If he is interrupted now, he knows he will not be able to summon the courage to begin again. 

“I have been just that,” he says, “but not to Castiel. It was in him that I found a way to leave that life behind me.”

A slight frown crosses Sam’s face as he attempts to put the pieces together. “When?” he asks softly.

“Only a few months ago,” Dean answers. 

Sam’s face goes pale. “And until then--”

“My home was not here, but a brothel across the city, run by an odious man named Crowley.” Dean’s lips twist in a bitter smile. “Strangely enough, we have him to thank, in part, for finding you after all this time.”

Sam darts a nervous glance in Castiel’s direction. “And you-- this is where you and Dean met?”

The judgment has left his voice, replaced only by confusion and a genuine desire to understand, but Castiel’s tone is still cold as he replies. “Not exactly.”

“The entire tale is not one I wish to revisit at the moment,” Dean says tightly. “But suffice to say, Castiel and I did meet under less than pleasant circumstances. Circumstances which have changed since then, much for the better.”

Sam shakes his head. “I do not understand,” he says, frustrated. “How is this any different from what you say you did before?” He sweeps his hand around, indicating the well-furnished room, the fine clothing they are wearing. “Is it not merely another form of exchange?”

Castiel makes as though to step forward again, but Dean holds him back. This is his fight. “How is it different?” he repeats, incredulous. “Sam, you understand nothing. Nothing. I am not here because Castiel _bought_ me,” he hisses. “I am here because I love him!”

The words ring heavily in the shocked silence that follows, and Castiel lets out a wordless sound that has Dean turning to him in concern. Castiel’s eyes are wide, and he presses a shaky hand to his chest. He looks completely and utterly shocked at Dean’s words.

Why should he not be? Dean has never given voice to them before. Has never confessed his love to Castiel. 

And that is what finally causes Dean’s anger to boil over, leaving him with clenched fists and fury sparking through every nerve. Those words should have been spoken to Castiel and to Castiel alone, in some quiet moment between the two of them, not thrown out in the midst of an argument about their validity of their relationship. 

For stealing that moment from them, Dean is not sure he will ever fully forgive his brother.

“Dean,” Sam croaks, so pale he looks as though he might faint, “I never--”

“Enough,” Dean says wearily. “I am done with it. Go to bed, Sam. We’ll talk in the morning.”

He turns to leave, all of his energy devoted to holding his head high, but he feels Sam’s hand land on his shoulder. “Please, Dean--”

“Take your hands off him,” Castiel orders. Sam towers over him in height, but the ferocity in Castiel’s gaze causes him to shrink like a reprimanded child. “It is only by his grace that you remain here, Sam. I suggest you do as he says.”

Dean does not look back-- cannot look back, cannot meet his brother’s eyes for fear of what he will see there-- but Sam does not follow as Castiel guides him up the stairs and into their chamber, shutting the door firmly behind them.

“Dean?” he says, so tentative, his blue eyes enormous as he looks at Dean. “Are you--”

Though his immediate instinct is to cover the truth, to say he’s fine, Dean swore to himself he would never lie to Castiel in such a way again. So instead of answering, he sits down on the bed and pats the space beside him. Castiel crosses the room in an instant and enfolds him in his arms, and only when Dean’s head finds the perfect place to rest does he finally allow the tension to leave his body.

“I could kill him for this,” Castiel mutters, running a soothing hand up and down Dean’s back. “For hurting you so.”

“It’s not his fault,” Dean says, drawing back to look him in the eyes. “I have not been honest with him, and it has once again been my downfall. How could he understand what I have never attempted to explain to him?”

Castiel scowls. “He might try harder.”

Looking into his face, set in such righteously furious lines, Dean feels the last of his anger dissipate. This man. This wonderful, protective, fiercely devoted man. 

He cups Castiel’s face in his hands and presses a gentle kiss to his brow. “I love you,” he says. 

Castiel’s breath catches in his throat and his lips part on a surprised gasp. “Did you think that was only the heat of the moment speaking?” Dean says, gently running his thumb over the line of Castiel’s cheekbone. “It was not. I love you, Castiel. And I care not if it makes sense to anyone else. It is what gives purpose to my days and brings happiness to my heart, and I will not do without it.”

Pressed together so tightly, Dean can feel the way Castiel trembles at his words. He looks down, away from Dean, and a shudder passes over his body. “Did-- did I misspeak?” Dean asks. “I thought you would be pleased.”

Castiel sighs deeply and then lifts his eyes back to meet Dean’s. “I am,” he says softly. “Forgive me. I merely-- it has been a long time since those words have been spoken to me. And longer yet since I have believed them.”

Dean’s heart stutters in his chest at the raw pain in Castiel’s eyes, remembering their discussion about all those who tried to take advantage of his kindness, of his wealth and his position. “But you believe me,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Castiel, please.”

After a long moment, Castiel nods. “I do,” he says. “You have never given me reason to doubt it. It is only my own insecurities, my own past experiences that prompt these moments of disbelief.”

“And now Sam’s words,” Dean mutters darkly. “He knows nothing. I have not stayed with you these past months for anything more or anything less than who you are, my lord.” He reaches out and lays a gentle hand on Castiel’s chest, directly over his heart. “You told me once that it was the basic essence of who I was that made you come to care for me. You must know that it is the same for me.”

Even in the dim light of the room, Castiel’s eyes shine as he nods, then gives a breathless little laugh and kisses Dean, pressing their lips together fiercely before drawing back to gaze upon him once more. “I love you,” he echoes. “So very much.”

They know what they are to one another, what they have endured to have reached this point. They are stronger for all their trials, and this latest incident will only serve to make them stronger still. Dean is certain of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I came to Starbucks just to post this for you all since my internet is out at home. You're welcome/sorry?


	13. Chapter 13

In the morning, Dean wakes to find Castiel gazing down at him, his brow furrowed. Dean blinks sleepily and watches as Castiel hastily schools his features into a neutral expression. “Good morning,” he says. 

“Good morning,” Dean replies. “Why were you looking at me that way?”

“I can hide nothing from you,” Castiel mutters with a little laugh. “I was merely….concerned.”

The events of the previous night come flooding back to Dean’s mind, and he sighs, stretching his arms over his head. He will have to face Sam today. Better sooner than later, he supposes.

But he wants to enjoy this moment a little while longer, the tenderness in Castiel’s gaze, the gentle sound of rain pattering against the window. He rolls over and gathers Castiel in his arms, and Castiel comes willingly into his embrace. Dean just breathes in the scent of him, allowing it to calm him and lend him strength. Castiel lazily strokes a hand through Dean’s hair, seemingly content to hold him and be held in return, no need for speech between them. 

Eventually, Dean pulls away with a sigh. “I should get up,” he says quietly.

“As should I. I have a number of appointments today.” Castiel places a light kiss on Dean’s forehead. “Will you be alright without me here?”

“Yes,” Dean tells him. “Sam and I-- we have much to discuss. Things that might best be said with only the two of us present.”

“I have things I’d like to say to him as well,” Castiel mutters. “But I will await the results of your conversation, in case they need to be modified accordingly.”

Dean laughs and kisses him quickly. “Ever reasonable, even in your rage,” he says fondly. He reluctantly climbs out of bed and begins to dress.

From the bed, Castiel watches him with a strange expression on his face. After a moment, he clears his throat and says, “Dean?”

“Yes, my love?” The term comes easily to Dean’s lips, though he has never used it before. Perhaps because it sounds so much like what he often calls Castiel. Perhaps it’s what he’s been saying all along, without either of them realizing it.

Castiel flushes at the endearment, momentarily losing his concentration, and then recovers. “It is not my place to determine how you ought to build a relationship with your brother,” he says, hands twisting in the sheets. “But-- I too have been separated from my family for a long time. And while I would give anything to see Michael again, to have a chance to connect with him once more-- I would also know that not everything can work out as we wish.”

“Are you saying I should give up on rebuilding my relationship with Sam?” Dean asks, puzzled. Castiel has been nothing but supportive through this entire venture, and now, to bring up his own brother, who he never speaks of, seems a strange tactic. 

“No, not at all,” Castiel replies, shaking his head. “Only urging caution. And patience. As always.”

“Here you are again, trying to save me from my own folly.” Dean crosses the room and drops a kiss to Castiel’s cheek. “I thank you for it, and I will take your words to heart. But I truly believe Sam and I will come to an understanding.”

“I hope so,” Castiel says, smiling up at him. “Now go. Talk to your brother. And Dean?”

Dean pauses with his hand on the door and looks back at him. 

“Be honest with him,” Castiel advises. “Anything less will only deepen this rift between you.”

With one last nod, Dean leaves the room. He notes that the door to Sam’s chamber is ajar, and peers in with caution, but Sam is not there. Frowning, he checks the library, but it too is empty. He makes his way down the stairs, and as he reaches the bottom he hears voices coming from the entranceway.

Increasing his pace, Dean turns the corner to see Sam standing at the door, a small satchel at his feet, and Alfie standing with his arms crossed, looking mightily displeased as he argues with Sam.

“My lord!” Alfie exclaims as he catches sight of Dean. “Please, reason with your brother.”

“What are you doing?” Dean asks, looking between the two of them. “Sam?”

Sam swallows roughly and will not meet Dean’s eyes. “I have caused trouble enough,” he mutters. “I should never have come here.”

“You’re leaving?” Somehow, despite Castiel’s threats the night before, the idea had never occurred to Dean.

“I think it would be best,” Sam says quietly.

“I don’t,” Dean replies. At his words, Sam finally looks up, his face haggard. 

“You don’t--”

“If you wish to leave, I will respect your decision,” Dean says tightly. “But Sam-- I do not want you to go. I have never wanted to be separated from you, and that has not changed.”

Sam stares at him for a moment, the faintest hope shining in his eyes. “But, Dean, what I said--”

“Ought to be discussed,” Dean says, nodding. “But we cannot do that if you leave now.”

After another long pause, Sam nods. Quietly, Alfie picks up his bag and disappears with it, leaving Dean to lead Sam into the parlour. They take chairs opposite one another, and though he has been preparing for this moment since he woke, Dean knows not what to say.

“Is Lord Castiel not joining us?” Sam asks, casting a wary glance at the door. 

“No,” Dean replies. “I believe this conversation ought to be between us alone.”

Sam nods, his shoulders still tense. “Dean,” he begins, then stops himself, taking a deep breath. “I-- I’m sorry. More than you can know.”

“I do know,” Dean replies. “And I appreciate your apology.”

“That is not the same as accepting it,” Sam notes.

“No.” Dean shakes his head. “Not yet.”

Sam’s mouth twists in shame, but he nods. “There’s still so much I do not understand,” he says quietly. “And you owe me nothing, I know that, but Dean, if you would tell me your story, however much of it you can, I would hear it, and do my best to understand.”

Dean exhales shakily. This is the root of their misunderstanding, and yet approaching the subject is so difficult, even now. He and Sam have been on uneven footing ever since their reunion, he knows, with Dean having the advantage of Miss Wilson’s information and the presence of Ellen and Jo in Sam’s life to fill in the gaps in his knowledge. But Sam has only learned from observation, due to Dean’s own reluctance to speak of his past, and small wonder he has been misled.

“Very well,” he says. “It is not a pleasant story. But it begins on the day I last saw you, when you vanished without a trace left behind on London’s streets, and I sank into despair, no longer knowing how to continue without you.”

He tells Sam about meeting Crowley, about going back to the brothel with him. He does not mention any details of his time there, but there is no need. Sam’s eyes are wide as he listens to Dean’s tale, and it is clear he can imagine exactly how Dean’s long years there were spent. 

“And then, one day, Lord Zachariah came to see me, and made me a most ridiculous proposal,” Dean continues. With the distance of time, he is able to smile faintly at the memory, remembering how absurd it sounded to him. “He would pay me enough money to leave the brothel, to settle somewhere quiet on my own. And all I had to do in return was pose as his cousin, a young country nobleman, and then seduce and ruin his greatest enemy.”

He goes quiet for a moment, and Sam nods. “And that is how you met Castiel?” he asks hesitantly. “While you were attempting to fulfill Zachariah’s plan? Was he a guest at some event, or--”

Dean laughs gently, surprised that Sam did not immediately put the pieces together. “No, Sam,” he says. “Castiel was the one I was being paid to seduce.”

Sam draws in a startled breath, and understanding finally begins to dawn behind his eyes. “But you developed feelings for him,” he says softly.

“Yes. I struggled, caught between desperately wanting an escape from my life and wishing to cause no harm to him.”

“And then what happened?”

“Celeste discovered me,” Dean says with a rueful smile. “And all the pieces of the plot came tumbling down around me. Zachariah threatened her, threatened Gilda, threatened Castiel if I did not cooperate. But I would not let him hurt them, so I did what I had to do to keep them safe. I told Castiel the truth.”

“And he forgave you?” Sam asks, leaning forward in interest. 

“More than that,” Dean replies, shaking his head. It still awes him, the way Castiel accepted him and his lies so easily. “He said there was nothing to forgive. His care for me was not dependent on my circumstances, but on my character.”

Sam is quiet for a long moment, his eyes distant and thoughtful. Then he visibly gathers himself and presses forward. “And Zachariah?”

Dean permits himself a satisfied smile. “With help, I was able to force him into confessing his plan to have Castiel killed in front of a friend from Bow Street. He and his associate Uriel were both arrested, and are currently rotting in a dungeon somewhere. And I am free.”

“And this--” Sam struggles with his words, once again unable to look Dean in the eyes. “This is why you never sought me out until now. It is only recently that you have had the means to do so.”

“Yes,” Dean says softly. “My life had improved significantly, but I could not call myself happy, nor even content, until I knew what had become of you.”

When Sam raises his face again, Dean is shocked to see slow tears coursing their way down his cheeks. “I will never stop telling you how sorry I am,” Sam says hoarsely. “For what you have endured, and for how I have treated you in face of it.”

Any of Dean’s remaining anger melts away at those words, and without hesitating, he crosses the room and pulls Sam to his feet, wrapping him in a tight embrace. His own eyes are wet with unshed tears, and he allows them to fall as he and Sam cling fiercely to one another, all the last walls between them finally crumbling. 

Eventually, they pull apart. Dean wipes his face on his sleeve, and Sam does the same, both taking a moment to collect themselves. Then Dean returns to his seat, propping his elbows on his legs, and looks over at his brother.

“Do you understand now?” he asks.

“I believe so,” Sam answers. 

But understanding is only the first step. What matters most is Sam’s reaction.

“And now that you know everything,” Dean prompts him, “do you still sneer at me?”

He thinks he knows the answer to that question, but he needs to hear it regardless.

“No!” Sam exclaims. “God, no, Dean. I never--” he breaks off, looking ashamed. “My reaction last night was not a judgment of you,” he says. “I stole and I cheated and I did many things of which I am not proud in order to survive. How could I judge you for doing the same?”

Dean raises an eyebrow at that. “And what else could it have been, if not a judgment?” he asks. 

“A cover for my own guilt,” Sam says quietly. “To hear what your life had been in the years since we saw each other, knowing that it would not have turned out that way had we not been separated…”

“That was no fault of yours,” Dean reminds him. Sam’s explanation is a surprise, but after a moment’s thought, it makes perfect sense to Dean. If their positions were reversed, he knows he too would find a way to blame himself. 

“But if I had looked for you for longer instead of disappearing with Yellow Eyes and the other children--”

“What’s past is past,” Dean says, holding up a hand to stop Sam’s protests. “We cannot change what happened, Sam. We can only decide what to do from this day forward.”

Sam nods slowly. “You’re right,” he says. “Thank you, for preventing me from leaving this morning. It was a cowardly thing to do, and I am glad you were brave enough to force us to have this conversation, Dean. Braver than I am.”

“I can be brave, when the occasion requires it,” Dean says softly. “And I think you will find that you can as well, Sam.”

Sam’s smile is slightly tremulous, but it is there. “Now,” Dean says, “I think we deserve some breakfast.”

As if on cue, Sam’s stomach rumbles loudly. The noise breaks any remaining tension, and they both laugh. Dean opens the parlour door and within an instant, Alfie appears. “I expect you’ll be wanting feeding,” he says knowingly.

“You are a treasure among men,” Dean tells him. “Yes, please.”

“All this emotional talk has made us both rather hungry,” Sam adds. 

Alfie nods, but gives Sam a long look. “You’ll be staying, then?”

Sam’s eyes flick to Dean, who gives him an encouraging smile. “Yes,” Sam says. “I’ll be staying. At least for now.”

“Very well,” Alfie says with a bow. “I’ll have Benny make your favourites.”

“Has Lord Castiel already left?” Dean asks before Alfie leaves.

“He has,” Alfie replies. “He expects to return by early afternoon.”

“Thank you, Alfie.”

With another bow, Alfie exits, and Dean turns back to Sam, who is watching them with a fond smile.

“He is a good friend to you,” Sam comments.

“He is,” Dean agrees. But he does not wish to discuss Alfie, not now. “What did you mean? That you would be staying, at least for now?”

Sam winces. “I hoped you might not notice that.”

“No such luck.” Dean takes a seat once more, and studies his brother from across the room. “You’re thinking you still ought to leave.”

Sam sighs and folds his long body back into his own chair. “Yes,” he admits. “But not for the reasons you think.”

“I understand,” Dean tells him. Sam looks skeptical, but Dean just smiles, only slightly sadly. “We’ve gone about this all the wrong way, haven’t we?”

“Not all the wrong way,” Sam protests, but Dean knows he has isolated the issue from the way Sam picks nervously at a loose thread on the cushion behind him. “Just...too quickly, perhaps.”

He keeps looking at Dean as though bracing for another argument, and while Dean cannot fault him for making that assumption, there is no fight left in him. 

“I agree,” he says, and then laughs softly at the way Sam’s eyes go wide in surprise.

“You...agree?”

Dean settles more comfortably into his chair. “As our earlier conversation proved, there’s so much we still do not know about one another, Sam. I was so thrilled to have found you, to know that you were safe and well, that I did not stop to think about how the distance and years between us would have affected us both. We are not the same children who lost each other on these streets so many years ago. And that is not a bad thing, but it does mean we have work to do.”

A look of relief crosses Sam’s face. “I am not suggesting that I am unhappy being here,” he says hastily. “You and Castiel have been most accommodating, and I greatly enjoyed meeting your friends and acquaintances. But you’re right. We cannot simply pick up as though we were never separated, no matter how greatly we desire to do so.”

“So what do we do?” Dean asks. He is pleased that he and Sam are in agreement here. Oddly enough, it gives him more hope for the future of their relationship, knowing that this kind of synchronicity between them is still possible.

“I would like to stay a while longer,” Sam says hesitantly, “so long as you and Castiel approve.”

“I would like that as well,” Dean says.

“And Castiel?” Sam’s voice is carefully neutral, but he does not meet Dean’s eyes. 

He has reason to be uncertain of Castiel’s response to him, considering the events of the previous night. Dean shrugs. “He is a reasonable man,” he says. “I believe the two of you will make amends.”

“I hope so,” Sam says quietly. “And if he does permit me to stay, then I would be most grateful to him.”

They are briefly interrupted by Alfie returning with their meal, and after he leaves, Sam resumes his thread of conversation.

“After that...well, I admit I do miss Ellen and Jo already,” he says. “I do not wish to be away from them for too long.”

“And nor should you be,” Dean says. “They are wonderful people, Sam, and I am so pleased that you have found a home with them.”

“I am sure they would like to know you better. You would always be welcome to come stay with us,” Sam offers.

Dean rather likes the idea. The simple, comfortable life at the inn was a pleasant change from the opulence of his world here in London. And both Ellen and Jo were so warm and welcoming in their own ways. If there is one thing he has learned, it is that one can never have too many friends.

“So we will lead our own lives, and see each other as often as we desire,” he says, nodding his approval. “We do not need to be together every instant of every day.”

“Exactly,” Sam says, taking a sip of his tea. “It does not mean we care any less for one another.”

Dean has always known this, he supposes, but hearing Sam say it so simply makes it so clear to him where they went wrong. This whole time, he has been trying to build his relationship with Sam as though they are the only people in each other’s lives, but that is no longer the case. They do not need to protect one another from the harshness of life on London’s streets. They have both founds places where they are loved and secure, and their happiness is no longer dependent solely on one another. 

It is a far better place to be, where they are now.

They sit and talk the rest of the morning away. Sam tells Dean all about the things he has seen over the years, the interesting guests who have passed through the inn, the mischief he and Jo got into, much to Ellen’s dismay. Dean tells Sam about the more pleasant, recent parts of his past, about his courtship with Castiel and his friendship with Celeste. It is a great relief to be so free, so honest with him now. 

Dean hardly notices the passing of the hours, so he is quite surprised when he hears the familiar sound of Castiel’s boots clicking on the floors of the entranceway. Sam must notice it as well, because he immediately tenses, shrinking back in his chair.

“I believe I could use some of that bravery of yours,” he jokes faintly. 

“It will be fine,” Dean assures him. “Just… give me a moment. Wait here.”

Sam nods, hands clenched tightly on the arms of his chair, and Dean pauses to squeeze his shoulder encouragingly before he goes to intercept Castiel. He cannot blame Sam for his fear-- Castiel was a sight to behold the night before, his fury lending him a ferocity Dean had only ever glimpsed on rare occasions. 

He does not look nearly so fierce, now. A smile spreads across Castiel’s face as he catches sight of Dean entering the hall, and he strides forward, arms already extended to gather Dean into an embrace. “I missed you,” he murmurs, giving Dean a soft kiss. “I am glad to be home.”

“I am glad to have you here,” Dean tells him. 

Castiel draws back, giving him a concerned look. “How are you?” he asks gently. “Is Sam--”

“Waiting quite nervously to speak to you,” Dean tells him with a laugh. “I think you frightened him quite badly, last night.”

Castiel looks chagrined, but only somewhat. “And the two of you--”

“Have come to an understanding,” Dean assures him. “One that I think we are both quite pleased with, and will serve us well in the future.”

“Good.” Castiel nods firmly and reaches out a hand to Dean, who takes it in his own. “Now, let us see what Sam has to say to me.”

They enter the parlour, and Sam immediately leaps to his feet, pushing his hair out of his face. “Good afternoon, my lord,” he says, almost painfully polite.

“Good afternoon, Sam,” Castiel replies, voice carefully neutral. 

Dean’s heart breaks for the two of them, for the beginning of the friendship he had seen blossoming between them. He hopes it is not beyond repair.

Sam takes a deep breath and seems to find his courage. “I owe you an apology, my lord,” he says. “Perhaps several.”

Castiel merely raises an eyebrow at that. “No,” he says, “it is Dean who was owed an apology, and from what he has told me, the two of you have made your peace.”

Sam shakes his head. “No,” he insists. “What I suggested, last night-- what I assumed-- was unfair not only to Dean but to you. I should have known that you were a man of honour, and not one to take advantage of my brother in any way, but it was a failure of my imagination that led to my mistaken impression, not a failure of your character.”

He pauses for a moment, looking down at the floor. “I have spent much of my life distrusting those with greater wealth and power than myself,” he says quietly, “and I have seen how often people treat each other as disposable. I made assumptions about you based on these experiences, but that is no excuse for my behaviour.”

Castiel looks at him for a long moment, and Sam fidgets nervously under his gaze. Dean knows all too well what it is like to be caught by those piercing blue eyes, the way they seem to look into your very soul, and he understands Sam’s nervousness completely.

But then Castiel smiles, and drops Dean’s hand, and crosses the room towards Sam, who looks at him with a half-fearful, half-hopeful expression on his face. 

Castiel reaches out and places a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “It is forgiven,” he says. “Who among us has not fallen prey to misunderstandings and assumptions? You were quick to cast me as a villain, it is true, but I believe you spoke from a place of concern for Dean, misguided though it was. If the two of you have settled that matter, who am I to hold a grudge against you for it?”

“You are most gracious,” Sam says, managing a small smile. But his shoulders are still tense, his eyes still wary, as though he cannot believe the matter so simply solved.

Dean has had enough. He strides across the room to join them and throws one arm around each of them, drawing them both in against himself. “Let us be done with it,” he begs them. “With three such strong personalities as our own, I am confident we will have other occasions to quarrel in the future. Let us leave this one behind us.”

Finally, Sam laughs. He tightens his hold on Dean, but it is to Castiel he looks when he says, “I would be happy to do so.”

“It is settled, then,” Castiel says, disentangling himself but keeping hold of Dean’s hand once more. Dean squeezes it lightly, once again amazed by the depth of Castiel’s capacity for forgiveness, the generosity of his spirit. But there is also a new awareness in the way Sam looks at him, a new sort of respect-- he will watch his words more carefully in the future, Dean predicts, and will not allow hasty judgments to cloud his vision again.

It bodes well for all of them. With some patience, some cooperation, and a great deal of honesty, Dean thinks they can achieve something wonderful, the three of them. He looks forward to that day with great anticipation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're starting to wind down here, folks! Only one chapter left.


	14. Chapter 14

“Castiel,” Dean calls out, “what have you done with the guest list?”

“I left it in the parlour,” Castiel replies, frowning. “Right where you told me to.”

Dean scowls at him. “It is no longer there.”

There’s the sound of footsteps thudding on the stairs, and Sam comes to join them in the hall, a sheepish look on his face. “Here,” he says, holding out the list in question. “I borrowed it. Temporarily.”

Dean raises an eyebrow at him as he takes the list back. “Looking for anyone in particular?” he asks, watching as Sam flushes at the question.

“Perhaps,” Sam admits. “And also curious about how many guests could possibly be attending a hastily-assembled masquerade ball.”

“Quite a few, apparently,” Dean replies, scanning over the list. “My lord, I think nearly every reply has been an affirmative.”

“It is not often that I host events such as this,” Castiel says with a shrug. “People are always fond of new things, new events to attend.”

“If it is a success, you know we will be pressured to repeat the entire thing,” Dean points out.

“And when have we ever done what the pressure of society demands?” Castiel replies. “Let us make it a night to remember, and never repeat.”

Dean laughs at that, at the look of simultaneous anticipation and dread on Castiel’s face at the thought of the ball. It was Dean’s idea, and both Castiel and Sam had gone along with it willingly. They have spent the past two weeks gradually introducing Sam to London’s social schedule, and since he plans to return to the country tomorrow morning, this seemed the perfect way to end his visit. 

Now Dean wonders if perhaps they should have given themselves a day in between to recover from what promises to be quite an exciting night.

He has consulted with Benny in the kitchen, and all the refreshments are prepared. The ballroom, which Dean has never seen used in his months living with Castiel, has been cleaned and decorated to his exacting standards. Everything is in readiness, except for the three of them.

“We ought to dress,” Dean says. “The guests will be arriving soon.”

Sam frowns. “We have an hour,” he says, glancing at the clock in the hall.

Castiel bites his lip and sneaks a sly glance at Dean. “I leave this to you to explain,” he murmurs.

Dean covers a laugh of his own. He’s quite certain Sam will not want to hear the reason why it takes Dean and Castiel so long to get themselves ready for any sort of event. “Well, Sam,” he says, placing a hand on his brother’s shoulder, “you may have noticed that Castiel and I are quite fond of one another. And when we are both occupied with disrobing, it becomes rather difficult to convince each other that we ought to put clothing back on.”

Sam sighs heavily and ducks out from under Dean’s arm. “I should have known,” he says. “Go on, then. I shall content myself with pacing about my chamber a while longer.”

“Not too long,” Dean reminds him. “You’ll want to look your best tonight, no?”

“Is that not the entire purpose of a masquerade? To hide our identities?” Sam asks.

“Not at all,” Castiel replies. “I can say with certainty that I have never been confused about the identity of any person I’ve spoken with at a masked ball. It’s a matter of aesthetics, rather than actual disguise.”

“What a strange concept.” Sam shakes his head in amusement and makes his way back up the stairs with a little wave over his shoulder. “I look forward to it regardless.”

Despite their teasing, Dean and Castiel manage to restrain themselves while dressing for the ball. Mostly. Dean does find himself sprawled on the bed wearing nothing but his new breeches at one point, Castiel’s body a welcome weight above him. But they are groomed and masked and waiting in the ballroom at the appointed hour, and have not made a mess of their new garments. Dean considers that a success.

Castiel reaches out and adjusts Dean’s mask. “You look very handsome,” he whispers in Dean’s ear.

Dean slides an arm about his waist and attempts to kiss him, but the mask proves an impediment. “How frustrating,” he remarks. “I begin to regret our decision to make this a masquerade.”

“I do not,” Sam says as he comes to join them. “It’s quite fun, I think.”

“Good,” Dean says, giving him a smile. Sam’s height and hair make it easy to determine his identity in spite of the copper and bronze mask that covers the top half of his face. He moves more comfortably in his fine clothing now, Dean notes, and has caused quite a stir among the unmarried portion of London society over the past weeks. Sam has taken it all in stride, dancing and making polite conversation with all of his admirers, but he only has eyes for Miss Blake.

The first guests to arrive are Celeste and Gilda, naturally, both of whom are mightily impressed with the way Castiel’s home has been transformed. “You’ve a natural talent for hosting,” Celeste tells Dean approvingly. “Nurtured under my watchful eye, of course.”

“Quite so,” Dean replies with a bow. “I owe any of my skill to your excellent tutelage.”

“I helped,” Castiel says mildly. “As did Sam.”

“Yes, you’re both very strong and capable,” Dean says soothingly. “I never could have accomplished this without your assistance.”

Sam huffs in mock-annoyance, but even behind his mask, Dean can see the smile in his eyes. They are prevented from further teasing by the arrival of a large group of guests, and after that, the stream of new appearances becomes constant. 

It’s quite different playing host than it is being a guest at one of these events. For one, Dean is unable to hide in a corner of the room to escape scrutiny. But fortunately, having to greet each new arrival means he cannot talk to any one person for a lengthy amount of time, a fact he is grateful for when he bows over Lady Abaddon’s hand and politely compliments her on her attire. By the time all their guests have arrived, Dean is exhausted.

He turns to Castiel and sees a look of relief on his face as Alfie nods at them, indicating that all the expected attendees have gathered. “If we do this again, we shall order masks that cover our entire faces and hire actors to play our parts for this portion of the evening,” Dean tells him in a whisper.

Castiel’s shoulders shake with his quiet laughter. “Whilst we sneak away for a tryst in the garden?” he suggests.

“Naturally,” Dean replies. “Now, my lord, I believe it is time we open the dancing.”

Smiling at him, Castiel offers his arm and Dean accepts it, and while the assembled crowd applauds politely, they make their way to the centre of the room.

Dean expected to be nervous during this opening dance, knowing the entire room would be watching he and Castiel. But as the music begins and Castiel leads him into the first movement, Dean’s worry melts away. Perhaps it is the comfort of being in his own home, or perhaps it is the way the mask hides part of his face, or perhaps it is merely the fact that the past two weeks have been some of the happiest of Dean’s life. Whatever the reason, he finds himself moving through the patterns with unusual ease, beaming up at Castiel as they twirl gracefully around one another.

The rest of the room fades away, leaving only the feeling of Castiel’s arms around him, the warmth of his hand at Dean’s waist, the look in his eyes as he holds Dean’s gaze. Dean wishes he could capture this moment forever, the utter perfection of it, and keep it close to him through the rest of his days.

The song ends, and Dean finds himself masterfully dipped towards the ground, secure in Castiel’s strong arms. He lifts one hand and places it on Castiel’s cheek, those blue eyes bright behind his black and gold mask, and whispers, “I love you.”

Castiel pulls him back to his feet and sweeps him into an embrace as the crowd erupts into applause. “And I love you,” he murmurs in Dean’s ear. 

There is little time to say anything else as the music changes to something more playful and nearly all the guests swarm onto the floor. Dean and Castiel find themselves separated along the line of dancers, but Dean’s good mood persists, dancing with abandon no matter his partner. When it comes time to pair off once more, he gallantly offers his arm to Gilda, who accepts it with a graceful curtsey.

“I see my wife is occupied with your brother,” she comments as Dean spins her around, nodding towards the other side of the room.

Dean follows her gaze and laughs in delight at the image of Sam and Celeste dancing together. She looks incredibly small next to his tall frame, but her bright red hair flows freely behind her as she keeps pace with him, and even at this distance Dean can see the smiles on both of their faces.

It fills his heart with more gladness than Dean ever thought himself capable of, seeing them interact in such a way. He is blessed in his friends, and blessed to be able to share them now with Sam. 

Perhaps someday, they could all journey to Castiel’s country estate together, and Sam could join them there, and they could spend a week riding and having picnics and sampling Cain’s honey for breakfast every morning. Dean has never allowed himself to imagine a future like this, one in which he is so surrounded by people he cares for and who care for him in return. It’s quite a heady feeling, and one he doesn’t expect to ever tire of.

The time comes for the break in dancing, and Dean raises his mask to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He is grateful for the reprieve, and immediately makes his way towards the refreshments table in search of some lemonade to quench his thirst. 

He finds Sam there, carefully balancing two glasses and attempting to pour a third. Dean is careful not to startle him as he comes up beside him, taking the two full glasses out of his hands. “Are you enjoying your evening?” he asks. 

“I am,” Sam replies with a grateful nod. He looks over to where Miss Blake is chatting lightly with an older, dignified-looking man. “I have just been introduced to Mr. Blake, art merchant.”

“Hence the third glass,” Dean responds. He watches Sarah and her father for a few minutes, then turns back to Sam. “He does not seem so frightening.”

“Not yet, no,” Sam says warily. “I have been sent for refreshments, and I cannot help wonder what he is saying to her about me in my absence.”

“Likely commenting on your height and manners, as they are the two most immediately noticeable of your many admirable qualities,” Castiel says, coming to join them. “I spoke with Mr. Blake earlier, when he arrived. He seems a most pleasant man.”

Sam looks back across the room and a soft smile plays about his lips. “I hope so,” he says quietly. 

“Go on,” Dean urges him. “Otherwise Mr. Blake will think you are avoiding him. Stand tall, be confident, and assure him of your respectability, and then he will retire early and leave you and Miss Blake alone.”

“Or as alone as you can be with all these other people here,” Castiel adds. 

Taking a deep breath, Sam squares his shoulders and makes his way back to Sarah and her father. Dean watches him go, noting the way Sarah’s face brightens when he approaches, the way Mr. Blake gives him an approving nod as he accepts his glass of lemonade.

“You look as though you’re about to burst from pride,” Castiel says, sliding an arm around Dean’s waist. 

“Even behind my mask?” Dean teases.

“Yes,” Castiel answers. “It’s in every line of your body.”

“And who knows my body better than you, my lord?” Dean murmurs, voice dropping low. 

Castiel pinches his hip and Dean yelps, glaring up at him. “This is true. For example, I know that’s a sensitive spot for you,” Castiel says with a smirk.

Dean wants to kiss him, but their damned masks will only get in the way. “You will pay for that later,” he informs Castiel loftily.

“I look forward to it,” Castiel replies, eyes dark behind his mask. 

It’s so incredibly tempting to simply drag him away now, but Dean restrains himself. They have a duty to their guests, after all. How tiresome.

The music begins again, and Dean looks at Castiel expectantly, but he shakes his head. “I have promised the next dance to Lady Talbot,” he explains. “Forgive me.”

“Of course,” Dean replies. He casts a look around the room, wondering if might be able to skip this particular dance, but then hears someone clear their throat behind him.

“Would you do me the honour of accompanying me, my lord?” Balthazar asks, a wry grin on his face.

Dean takes his hand with a glad smile. “It is you who honours me,” he says, and allows himself to be led onto the floor.

Balthazar is a marvellous dancer, and now that they have resolved the tension between them, he proves a most pleasant partner. He has an endless supply of witty remarks and intriguing information about the other guests, enough to keep Dean amused throughout the entire piece.

“You’ll make a gossip of me yet,” Dean complains. 

“Knowledge is power, my dear lad,” Balthazar says with a broad grin. “Along with our fine clothes and our smiles and these masks of ours--” he reaches out and touches the edge of Dean’s masks lightly-- “they are our protection in this world.”

He sounds almost sad, as though it’s a lesson he has learned through difficult experiences, and it makes Dean’s heart clench painfully in his chest. He has not given Balthazar enough credit, nor ascribed him nearly enough depth of character. He resolves to be better about that in the future. 

“And our friends,” he adds softly. “They are our greatest strength and our greatest protection.”

Balthazar smiles at that, and as the music comes to its end, he gives Dean a deep bow. “You are wise beyond your years,” he comments. “You and Castiel are well-suited to one another.”

From someone who has known Castiel as long as Balthazar has, it is a most encouraging thing to hear. Dean bows in return, and his smile lingers even as he changes partners again and again, losing himself in the rhythms of the dances that are slowly becoming familiar to him.

As the night goes on, Dean excuses himself from the dancing to take up position near the ballroom doors once again, saying his farewells to the departing guests and thanking them for attending. Many of them compliment him on a successful first venture into the world of hosting, and he finds himself standing taller the more often he hears it, pleased with what he has accomplished. 

Just as he predicted, Mr. Blake leaves alone. He gives Dean a cordial nod and Castiel a polite bow. “I had a most pleasant evening,” he says. 

“We are so happy to hear that,” Castiel replies smoothly. “We hope to see you again soon, Mr. Blake.”

“I have no doubt of that,” Mr. Blake comments, casting his gaze towards Sam and Sarah, one of the last remaining pairs on the dance floor. “No doubt at all.”

Dean bites back a smile and cheers inwardly. “A fine young man, your brother,” Mr. Blake continues, looking back at Dean. “You must be very proud of him.”

“Yes,” Dean says, “I am.” 

After a few more polite words, Mr. Blake leaves, and the line of departing guests gradually diminishes. Even Celeste and Gilda take their leave, with kisses to Dean and Castiel’s cheeks and promises to call on them again soon. Balthazar gives Dean a brief but fond embrace, and then turns to exchange a few whispered words with Castiel, clasping him by both shoulders as they speak. He leaves for Paris again soon, and Dean is happy to give them a few moments of privacy before his departure.

It’s long past midnight, and Dean raises a polite hand to his mouth to cover his yawn as he peeks back into the ballroom, hoping they might soon retire for the night. The last guests are saying their farewells to Castiel, and he turns back to give them a nod and wish them a safe journey home.

“Is that everyone?” Castiel whispers. “I fear I’m getting too old for this, Dean. I am exhausted.”

“We cannot have that,” Dean replies, shaking his head. “I have plans for us after this.”

Castiel’s lips curl upwards and he reaches out to draw Dean against him, resting his head against Dean’s shoulder. “Then let this portion of the evening conclude so we might move on to other things.”

“But how could we possibly interrupt such a tender moment?” Dean asks, nodding towards the far corner of the ballroom.

Castiel follows his gaze, and his face goes soft as he takes in the sight of Sam and Sarah seated together, slightly closer than is considered appropriate but not quite touching. At some point in the evening, they both lost their masks. Their heads are bent towards one another and if Dean had to guess, he would say they have no idea that the rest of the room has cleared around them.

Dean does not wish to disturb them, but he also knows the night must come to an end. So when Alfie and the other servants arrive to begin to put the room back in order, Dean waves them forward, anticipating that the noise might break the spell Sam and Sarah.

It works. Sam looks up at the clatter and even from across the room, the look of surprise on his face is evident. He stands and pushes his hair behind his ears, then offers his arm to Sarah to help her to her feet. They pause for a moment, too far away for Dean to hear their whispered conversation, but he notes the way Sarah’s hand lingers on Sam’s arm, the way Sam bends towards her solicitously. And then they pull themselves apart and make their way towards Dean and Castiel, who wait patiently by the ballroom doors.

“My lords,” Sarah says, bobbing a curtsey. “Thank you for a wonderful evening.”

“I am pleased to hear you enjoyed yourself, Miss Blake,” Castiel says warmly. 

“And I’m sure we shall see one another again soon,” Dean adds, winking at his brother.

“I hope so,” Sarah replies. She gives them a friendly smile. “If not here, then surely we will all be reunited in Paris at Lord Balthazar’s request.”

Castiel laughs. “Indeed.”

“I’ll escort Miss Blake out,” Sam murmurs.

“Of course,” Dean says knowingly. “Goodnight, Miss Blake.”

With a last wave, Sarah allows Sam to lead her down the hall. Dean watches them go, knowing it would be more proper to not leave them alone but also certain that any sort of impropriety would never occur to Sam.

“Well,” Castiel says, “the guests are all gone.”

Dean turns back to him and raises one eyebrow. “Onwards, then?”

“Onwards and upwards,” Castiel answers, lips twitching slightly.

Dean has spent the entire night wanting to kiss him. But when he reaches for him, Castiel darts back, laughing, and turns quickly on his heel, running up the stairs in defiance of his earlier remarks about being tired. A grin spreading over his face, Dean gives chase.

He catches up to Castiel at their chamber door and boxes him in against it. Raising his hands, Dean slowly peels Castiel’s mask away from his face, then removes his own. He can feel the heat of Castiel’s body even through their layers of clothing, and hear the way Castiel’s heartbeat gradually increases the longer they stand there.

“Dean,” he says in what might uncharitably be termed a whine. “What are you waiting--”

Rather than directing his kiss to Castiel’s lips, Dean first moves to the gorgeous line of his neck, and Castiel sags against him, all the breath escaping his lungs in a rush. Dean smiles to himself and continues to press kisses all up the column of his throat, across his jaw, his cheekbones, and finally, his mouth.

Castiel’s lips part eagerly beneath his and Dean presses him back more firmly, grateful for the solid wooden door that keeps them both upright. Castiel tastes of lemonade and icing sugar from the delicate pastries they provided as refreshments, with just a hint of brandy from the one glass he drank later in the evening. He tastes like everything that is good in the world, and Dean will never have enough of it, never have enough of him.

But for what he has in mind, their bed might be a better location than the hallway.

So he pushes the door open and they stumble inside, hands already frantically removing jackets and unfastening trousers, desperately attempting to keep their lips pressed together as they move backwards in the direction of the bed. Castiel trips over his trousers as they fall to the ground, but lands safely on the bed, laughing, as Dean removes his more carefully and then climbs on top of him, their naked bodies pressed against one another again.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says, voice soft. He reaches up and presses his warm hand to Dean’s cheek. “I enjoy the masks, but I have missed seeing this face of yours tonight.”

Dean turns his head slightly and presses a kiss to the centre of Castiel’s palm. “Well, here I am,” he murmurs.

“Here we are,” Castiel says. Their earlier urgency has faded, but as he strokes his other hand along Dean’s back, the fire beneath Dean’s skin is rekindled. “It is a good place to be.”

“Yes,” Dean says. “It is.”

And then he leans down and seals their mouths together once more, and Castiel’s arms wrap around him, and there is no more talking, only the language of their bodies, in which they have become so fluent.

***

Sam’s bags are all packed, and after a leisurely breakfast, he pushes his chair away from the table and rises to his feet. “Well,” he says, coughing awkwardly. “I suppose it is time.”

A lump rises in Dean’s throat, and he pushes it down. He can do this. He can let Sam walk out the door, knowing it will not be the last time they see one another. There is nothing to fear any longer, no bogeyman coming to steal either of them away.

“Are you certain you do not wish us to accompany you?” Castiel asks gently. “Or Dean, at least, if not myself.”

Sam hesitates, looking guiltily at Dean, but then shakes his head. “I would appreciate the time to myself,” he says quietly. “To reflect. To consider what lies ahead.”

Dean cannot fault him for that. “Come, then,” he says, voice falsely bright. “I’ll have the carriage brought round.”

He steps outside the dining room and Alfie appears almost immediately. “Is it time?” he asks.

“Yes,” Dean answers. “Is the carriage ready?”

“Of course, my lord,” Alfie says with a bow. 

“Do not call me that,” Dean says reflexively. He reaches out and clasps Alfie’s shoulder. “Thank you, my friend.”

Alfie gives him a sympathetic smile and then turns to Sam and Castiel, who have come to join them near the entryway. “It has been an honour to make your acquaintance,” Alfie tells Sam. “I look forward to seeing you again soon.”

“Yes,” Sam says, extending his hand for Alfie to shake. “And should you ever tire of these two,” he says, nodding towards Dean and Castiel, “you would find yourself most welcome at my inn.”

“I shall keep that in mind,” Alfie says with a wink, then takes his leave.

Sam turns to Castiel, a tentative smile on his face. “Farewell, my lord,” he says. “I cannot thank you enough for-- well, for everything you have done. For myself, and for Dean.”

Castiel returns his smile and reaches out to pull him into an embrace. “It was nothing,” he says. “We will see you soon, Sam. Give my regards to your family.”

Sam nods, his eyes suspiciously bright. Castiel glances between he and Dean and then murmurs, “I will give you a moment.” He gives Dean a light kiss on the cheek and turns towards the stairs, leaving the two brothers alone.

“Well,” Dean says awkwardly, looking at the floor. “I wish you a safe journey, Sam.”

“Thank you,” Sam replies, equally stiff. The silence hangs heavy between them, so many things they have yet left unsaid. And then Sam makes a noise of frustration and crosses the hall towards Dean, gathering him in a tight embrace.

“Thank you,” he says hoarsely. “For never giving up on me.”

Dean shakes his head, face buried against Sam’s broad shoulder. “How could I?” he asks. “You are my brother, Sam. No matter where we go, no matter who we become. Our blood is our bond.”

Sam takes a step back and scrubs the back of his hand across his face. “And may it never be broken,” he says softly. “No matter how much it bends.”

Dean gives him a wry smile. “We have certainly put it to the test, have we not?”

“We have,” Sam agrees. “And emerged stronger for it.”

It’s true. Looking at Sam now, Dean feels far closer to him than he did upon their initial reunion. It has been a slow and occasionally difficult process, getting to know one another all over again, but it has been worth it, every minute of it. Even the difficult parts.

So he takes a deep breath and lets his arms drop. “If you need anything,” he says, “anything at all--”

“I know where to find you,” Sam says. “And you know where to find me.”

“I do. Please give my best to Ellen and Jo.” Dean imagines they will be pleased to have Sam back with them, and the thought of their reunion makes him smile. 

“This is not goodbye,” Sam reminds him softly. 

“I know,” Dean says, wiping away the solitary tear that winds its way down his cheek. “I know.”

He pulls Sam into one last embrace, and then opens the door. The morning sunlight streams brightly over the steps and reflects off the carriage windows where it waits to take Sam away once more.

“What a beautiful day,” Sam comments.

Dean looks at him, how strong he is, how hopeful he is about the future. “Yes,” he says, “it really is.”

With one last smile, Sam descends the steps and climbs into the carriage. Dean watches him walk away, knowing it will not be long before they see one another again but hating this moment regardless. And then he stands on the steps and waves until the carriage disappears from his sight.

Sighing, Dean turns and enters the house. He climbs the stairs and checks Castiel’s study, but he is not there, nor is he in their chamber. A slight smile growing on his face, he notes that the door to the library is ajar, and when he pushes it open, he finds Castiel sprawled on the divan, book in hand.

He looks up as Dean enters, and Dean’s breath catches in his throat at the pure warmth that emanates from his gaze. Dean takes the book he has been reading from the shelf and swiftly crosses the room, dropping himself onto the divan and settling comfortably back against Castiel’s chest. 

Castiel’s hand smoothes lightly over his hair, but he does not press Dean to speak. His body is warm and solid beneath Dean, always there to support and steady him. Dean arranges his legs more comfortably and opens his book, and after a moment, he feels Castiel shift beneath him as he does the same.

Later, as Dean’s eyes begin to grow tired and his concentration begins to waver, Castiel reaches over and gently closes his book. “Dean,” he says, his voice a pleasant rumble against Dean’s ear, “are you happy?”

And Dean twists around to look into that beloved face, to smile up at him and to see an answering smile dawn on Castiel’s lips. They have come so far together, and there is still so much they have to yet to discover. 

“Yes,” Dean says, “I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has come along on this journey with me! While this installment is complete, this is not the end for our boys. There will be more in this 'verse in the future, though less plotty and more timestamp-y in nature. I guarantee at least one wedding. But again, due to previous commitments, I'm not positive when those will appear. I would recommend bookmarking the series to stay up to date.


End file.
